


The Zoo (or A Study in Zoology)

by i_am_deaded



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alien Abduction, Alien Character(s), Alien Planet, Alien Technology, Aliens, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Aliens, Angst, Dreams and Nightmares, Gen, Government Conspiracy, Grief/Mourning, I will be adding more tags so watch out for those, Implications of death, Impossible Things, Internet, John is confused, Mentions of Past Attempted-Suicide, Mycroft is also confused, Past Character Death, Post-Season/Series 03, Sherlock is a Girl's Name, Sherlock is sad, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Trans Character, WIP, Wormhole Technology, alien science, and a damsel in destress, and angry, because what good fic doesn't have a bit of that, but not really, kind of, which is never a good thing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-03-19 20:46:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 22
Words: 28,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3623736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_am_deaded/pseuds/i_am_deaded
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What really stood out though, was the fact that there was no door. Just a giant, clear wall opposite to him.<br/>Across what Sherlock assumed was a hallway was another cell. Filled with monkeys.<br/>It was at this point that he started to panic.<br/>"Where the hell am I?"<br/>And that’s when he noticed the aliens.</p>
<p>THIS FIC IS DISCONTINUED ~ PLEASE SEE ENDNOTE FOR MORE INFORMATION</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Rude Awakening

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there!! This is my third attempt at some Johnlock fanfiction and it will be significantly longer this time! It will also be dealing with some issues that you will find out more about later, but for now be warned: if this is still a WIP when you're reading it, tags/ratings may change! Please be aware of these changes. I will try to tag accordingly, but if I am missing anything or there are any suggestions about tags please let me know.  
> Also, this fic has no beta, so all mistakes are my own. Please let me know if there are any mistakes and I will do my best to correct them.  
> All in all though, I am mainly writing this for myself, but I thought that we have so very few special AU fics that I might as well contribute. This has been in the works (AKA the back of my mind) for some time now and I have recently begun working on it in earnest. After University season is over, I plan to write/finish this fic. It is pretty much all planned out, I just have to add words... (Yes, we get it, now shut up and get back to writing!)  
> Anywho, I won't promise regular updates until this is completely finished, but I will try to update if there is interest.  
> Jeez, that was long. Thanks for sticking with me the whole way down here. On to the story!!

               Sherlock knew the instant he regained consciousness that he wasn’t where he had fallen asleep initially. Before even opening up his eyes he could tell that what he was lying on wasn’t the soft, lumpy couch in the living room at Baker Street, or even the firm but comfortable bed in his room. He couldn’t hear the traffic, no matter how light, that London streets seemed to always hold. In fact, he couldn’t hear anything at the moment.

               And he wasn’t wearing anything, for that matter. He normally slept in pyjamas at least, never in the nude in case John saw him, no matter how small the chance may be. The man was extremely unobservant when it came to some of Sherlock’s habits and he slept more frequently and regularly. Sherlock tried to make a habit of sleeping only when John did, if he had to sleep at all.

               He scrunched up his nose in irritation and opened his eyes a crack, annoyed. Then he realised just where he had been sleeping. He sat up and looked around to get a better look.

               It was a cell.

               Not just any cell, mind you. It was not like any other that Sherlock had ever seen, counting those of the Yard or when he was at rehab. This cell appeared to be fairly clean, with pale blue and white walls, a toilet and sink in the corner. Sherlock figured it was roughly twelve feet by twelve feet, just enough room for one or two people. It was these things which had led him to the conclusion that this room was indeed a cell. What really stood out though, was the fact that there was no door. Just a giant, clear wall opposite to him.

                In the few seconds it took to process this, he heard a muffled noise. Well, a lot of noises. On the other side of his cell, he saw that his was not the only one in the vicinity.

                Across what Sherlock assumed was a hallway was another cell. Filled with _monkeys_.

                It was at this point that he started to panic.

                _Where the hell am I?_

And that’s when he noticed the aliens.

 


	2. Mycroft's Visit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I posted 2 chapters, but since the first is very short and the second is pretty great, I figured they should go together. I'll keep this brief: please coment/kudos if you think this is worth pursuing, because I would really like to write this for others rather than just myself. Thanks again, people!  
> Edit: Just made a few minor error fixes, nothing that changes the story!

                It was late morning when John awoke. After checking his bedside clock for the time, he turned over and sighed contently. It was 11:30 am on a Saturday and Sherlock had not woken him up yet with either his screeching violin or his clattering about whilst conducting an experiment. This happened so rarely that John was determined to make this last as long as possible.

                Today had been his only day off this week at the clinic, and since Sherlock had been able to wrap up a case by himself yesterday, there was no reason for John to be bothered at work. Sarah had been grateful for his help this week.

                After half an hour, his bladder was demanding him to get up. Reluctantly, he grabbed his robe and shuffled downstairs to the washroom to relieve himself. After washing his hands, he shuffled into the kitchen to start making breakfast.

                _Eggs, maybe some bacon. Better make a couple extra in case Sherlock feels like eating. And tea._

                Halfway through making breakfast he realised that he had not heard a peep from the living room or Sherlock’s room the whole time he had been downstairs. Usually, when John awoke, Sherlock would stumble from his room after hearing John fuss around in the kitchen – when he slept that is, which wasn’t often enough for John’s liking.

                John let him sleep. Sherlock must have been at least three quarters dead after the hectic week he had had. John figured he had probably gotten three hours sleep this whole week overall, determined to work through this case until he had found the one responsible. John hated that he thought he could live on tea and biscuits for five days, so three days in he had forced Sherlock sit down and eat half a carton of Chinese takeaway left over from the previous week. Sherlock had made a fuss, but eventually caved under John’s unrelenting stubbornness. John smiled at the thought.

                While John had been with Mary, Sherlock had barely eaten, slept, or generally taken care of his ‘transport’ as he called it. And John didn’t even want to imagine what he had gone through when he was away.

                _Mary. Best not think about it,_ he thought, eyes stinging. What had happened to his wife had not been his fault, but with the miscarriage…

                _Stop it. What’s done is done, Mary made her choice. She didn’t want to live with what she did._

                While he had been lost in thought, the bacon had been burning.

                “Shit,” he cursed quietly. He scooped out the extra crispy bacon out of the pan and then focussed on his eggs, which he miraculously didn’t burn.

                After getting out a plate he served himself the bacon and eggs and put the kettle on. He ate slowly, enjoying the lazy morning and the sunlight streaming through the windows. Absolute bliss.

                But of course, his lovely morning was ruined by a knock at the front door. Mrs. Hudson had been away for the week and would not be coming back for another week still, visiting with some friends of hers and Mrs. Turners. John got up and was not as startled as he had thought he would be by the imposing figure in front of him.

                Mycroft, as usual, was dressed in a suit and in his left hand he held an umbrella.

                “John, good morning, may I come it?” It was not so much a request as a command.

                John nodded sluggishly. “Sherlock isn’t awake yet, but if you want you can wait in the living room while I get him up.” Granted, John doubted that Sherlock was still asleep by now.

                “Actually John, that is in fact what I am here about.” Mycroft gave John a look and stepped past him, heading up the stairs and letting himself into the flat. John followed shortly after.

                “What’s he done this time?”

                “It is not what he has done as much as it is what he has _not_ ,” intoned Mycroft with an air of annoyance. “It has been more than eight hours since he has appeared on any of my surveillance.”

                John huffed. “Well, you do know he hates it when you track his every move. Anyone would.”

                “Yes, under normal circumstances I would not be worried, but ever since his… incident… with Charles Magnussen, I had told him that I would be keeping a closer eye on things. He agreed, under duress I imagine he would like to point out, to allow me to increase security on his person and in the flat as well,” Mycroft said, worrying at the handle of his umbrella and then looking directly at John. “Including his bedroom.” Mycroft never showed signs of worry unless he was under extreme stress, but John was too surprised by his statement to notice.

                “Mycroft!” John exclaimed, “He never told me this!”

                “Hmm, it appears he has not. I’m sure his reasoning was not to worry you more after what happened with Mary,” Mycroft said calmly. He didn’t miss John’s wince at the sound of his dead wife’s name.

                “At any rate, back to my original reason for coming to see you. As I said, he has not been on any of my surveillance for the last eigth hours. It was reported that there were some issues with the footage from last night. Almost all the cameras in the flat shorted out for the span of thirty seconds, then resumed. It was in these thirty seconds that we lost visual on Sherlock.” Mycroft looked like he was about ready to kill someone.

                “Well I can tell you it wasn’t me, I was asleep all night, went to bed around twelve. I figured Sherlock was conked out in his room after his week-long case,” said John, surprised. “Maybe he was just trying to evade you and your silly surveillance team.”

                Mycroft suppressed a sigh. He then asked, “Well, when was the last time you saw him John? Did he say anything to you that stood out?”

John thought about it. The last time he had seen Sherlock was… he tried to think. Maybe yesterday afternoon?

                Mycroft stood up abruptly. “Do not concern yourself with this further, John. I will see what I can do to track him down. Meanwhile, stay here and let me know if he contacts you in any way. I will be in touch. Good morning.” He left with his umbrella swinging, leaving John baffled.

                How could Mycroft not know where Sherlock was? There was no way Sherlock had been coherent when he had finally come home yesterday looking like Death itself. How could he have evaded Mycroft’s surveillance so efficiently?

 _This isn’t the first time he’s done this,_ his mind supplied. _He’ll come back when he’s ready. I hope._

                After a few moments, John realised that the kettle had clicked off in the background since Mycroft had left. He hoped Sherlock hadn’t gotten himself into trouble.

                 _Again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, let me know if anyone is interested, and I can keep more updates coming :)


	3. What Would Sherlock Do?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the next little bit. It will take some time to get into the swing of things, but more plot IS coming up soon, I promise.

                Sherlock’s brain screeched to a halt. He had already been panicking and the rush of adrenaline he felt when he saw these strange beings was the last straw. He sat paralyzed with fear as the beings, no _aliens,_ moved past the glass wall. They were like nothing he had ever seen before. All of his knowledge of species on earth – which was in fact a very limited amount – had not prepared him for the impossibility he saw before him.

                They were vaguely humanoid in shape, but that was where the similarity ended. Their skin was rust red and brown in colour, their arms and legs quite a bit longer than those of a human, but thinner and more lithe-looking. Then one of the aliens looked at him and he noticed the eyes.

                They were slightly larger than those of a human, and the irises were bright yellow in colour.

                The alien looked away, but the detective’s sight still lingered on the being. Everything he had known to be true had been demolished before his very eyes. Humans were not alone in the universe.

                The beings walked by slowly, gazes seeming to catch on the cell across from him. _The one with the monkeys,_ he told himself absently. They seemed more interested in that one, for some reason. What were they doing? He swung his legs over the side of the small cot that had served as his bed, wrapping himself in the thin, scratchy blanket. He placed his feet on the cold floor and then stood up.

                A couple of the beings saw his movement and looked over. It was hard for Sherlock to discern whether they were interested in him or not, so he walked over to the glass wall to get a closer look.

                This seemed to excite the aliens, and as Sherlock got closer, the more they seemed to pay attention to him. He looked at them all, at least a dozen, and saw that some of the larger ones were pushing the smaller ones to the front. The smaller ones stared openly at him with a look he surmised must have been wonder, because for all he knew they had never seen a human close up before. One even put its six fingered hand up to touch the glass.

                He glanced to his left and right and saw that down the hallway there appeared to be more glass walls with different species in them. He could make out a few of them from this distance, but then a dreadful revelation dawned upon him. He backpedaled to the small cot he had woken up on as this realisation hit him. He was in one of many cells – _cages –_ and these beings were observing him, like a fish in a tank _._

                He was in a zoo.

 

* * *

 

                John made the most of his Sherlock-free time and used it to clean up the flat. At least a little. There was no way he could ever get the flat to an appropriate state of cleanliness with all of Sherlock’s things strewn about. John felt bad about moving anything, since his flatmate had told him – more like barked at him _–_ that everything was in its place so that Sherlock would know where everything was. _Berk._

                Then he went down to the Tesco to pick up a few things. As he was grabbing some biscuits from the shelf, he got a text from Greg.

                _Can you tell Sherlock to come down to the Yard when it pleases his Highness to give his statement? I had to send him home early yesterday since he looked a little worse for wear. –GL_

John frowned and typed,

                _Haven’t seen him since yesterday. Apparently he’s AWOL. His brother came by, said that he’d evaded his surveillance. –JW_

                John hit send. He got a reply right before heading down to the tube station.

_Well that’s not good. But doesn’t he do this occasionally? –GL_

_No, apparently it’s not the usual. Mycroft is worried. –JW_

                Some minutes later after coming back out of the tube station near Baker Street, his phone buzzed again. He waited until he got home to answer, putting his bags in the kitchen and flopping down in his chair.

_If Mycroft is worried, now I’m ten times as worried. Try and find him? –GL_

_Working on it. If Sherlock doesn’t want to be found, he tends to makes sure he isn’t. –JW_

John sighed and leaned back in his chair. He tried to remember the last thing Sherlock said to him. It might have been about the case, or something. That didn’t help much.

                Then John thought of something. He could go through Sherlock’s room, look for anything out of the ordinary. Maybe he had left a note for John.

                _As soon as I touch anything he will know I went through his stuff when he gets back._ John knew Sherlock didn’t like it when people went through his things, but Sherlock had done it to John many a time, and this _was_ a special circumstance. _Let’s just hope he’s not too angry._

                John got up and entered Sherlock’s room, surprised to find it fairly clean. Normally, after a case, there would be books and things all over the bed since Sherlock didn’t tend to sleep on his bed when there were more important things to occupy it with. But this time, all the books were stacked in a corner and his bed was made. John couldn’t remember the last time he had ever seen Sherlock make his bed.

                _Something is_ definitely _wrong,_ thought John. And then chuckled to himself about the fact that Sherlock’s usual untidiness was what had caused him to notice that something was amiss.

                He looked under the covers, in the drawers, on top of all the dressers and cabinets. Nothing. Not even behind the periodic table poster.

                _There has to be_ something. _Maybe I’ve missed it._ John sat at the end of the bed in defeat and closed his eyes. _What would Sherlock do?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey again, just would like to say how happy I am that you've read this, please let me know if you want more. I can definitely do zat. ;)


	4. You're in a Zoo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there! Sorry about the late and short update, it's Exam season where I am, so that's just been crazy. I also noticed there was no chapter name for chap. 3, so that's fixed too. This is another small update without much plot, and I'm sorry for that, but I promise you there will be in fact more interesting things going on soon (AKA I'm bad at pacing and writing in general :P). If you feel like sticking around, that would be awesome!

                Sherlock was well and truly in panic mode. His brain was not responding properly, the only thought transmitting was flashing in big bright letters: _YOU’RE IN A ZOO._

                He took some deep breaths and tried to calm his racing pulse. The adrenaline was making it so that he could hear his erratic heartbeat in his ears, which didn’t help matters much. He closed his eyes and though of Baker Street. Of John.

                John was his anchor. John always knew what to do to calm down a victim. _Deep breaths, that’s it, just listen to my voice. Concentrate. Everything is going to be fine._

_Everything is going to be fine._

                He exhaled slowly, brain coming back online. _Thank you, John._

                When he opened his eyes again, he was sitting on the cot with his blanket-covered knees to his chest and his arms wound tightly around them. He let go and stretched out slowly. Then he chanced a look on the other side of the glass.

                The aliens were still there, but they seemed startled by what he had just done. One of the aliens was making sounds and the others looked at it. _Must be some sort of tour,_ Sherlock thought absentmindedly. That was a chilling thought.

                The aliens made their way from his cell to the next, and Sherlock was able to catch a glimpse of one of the other cages across from him. There appeared to be a few monkeys of different sizes and colours in each cell. The cells were filled with vegetation and tree-like props; enough to give a sense of familiarity but not enough to be completely comfortable.

                Sherlock looked around at his own sparse furnishings. _Definitely not five star accommodations._

                With the blanket wrapped around his body like a toga, Sherlock got up and paced the length of his cell. Again, he took in his surroundings. Toilet, sink, cot, calming-coloured walls. He no longer had his clothes or coat either obviously, which meant no phone. Not that he would get any reception if he even had it.

                He stopped, looked up and saw that the lighting consisted of one small orb hanging from the ceiling. It was bright enough to allow him to see and he could feel its slight heat radiating towards him. _Some sort of sun-like lamp, I’d imagine,_ he speculated. He closed his eyes against the brightness.

                _Now, how do I get out of here?_

                                                                                               

* * *

    

                John’s mobile rang. He checked the caller I.D., which said _Blocked Number_. John answered anyway.

                “Have you found anything yet, Mycroft?”

                “Not as of yet,” came the reply. “My team is attempting to recover the thirty seconds of video from each source that was tampered with, but their progress is slow at best. I am calling to make sure that you have not heard anything from Sherlock since I last spoke with you.”

                If Mycroft was calling John about information on Sherlock, John realised that Mycroft really must not be making much headway with the video and was calling John to see if there had been any developments on his end. Mycroft was really desperate.

                “No, haven’t heard a peep.” It was, as of now, late evening and John had passed the time making dinner and watching telly with his phone within arm’s reach at all times. He had texted Sherlock several times but received no reply.

                “Then I will let you know if any developments arise in the hours to come,” said Mycroft. John guessed that they would probably be up all night trying to find answers.

                “Alright,” said John, then Mycroft hung up.

                It was only after a few minutes that John realised that he had not told Mycroft about the state of Sherlock’s room.

 _Well, I’m sure he’s seen it on the video, he must have noticed,_ thought John. There was no need for him to worry overly, Sherlock was probably fine.

                He had to be.

 

* * *

 

                A few hours later, John dosed off in his chair.

                He had been thinking of places Sherlock might have gone and wasn’t making much progress. Sherlock had just had a week-long case – an interesting murder which turned out to be the work of a landscaper out for revenge. Weird, but not _that_ weird. Sherlock had berated himself over the obviousness of the answer after chasing down a promising, but ultimately wrong, lead at first. Sherlock didn’t mind legwork as it was, but his homeless network had become less and less reliable for information lately.

                The ineptitude of the Yarders hadn’t helped things either. They had gotten a new forensics lead and she was apparently worse at her job than Anderson had been, at least according to Sherlock. John didn’t find her terribly bad, but maybe it had been because she had just stood there and took what Sherlock gave out without flinching, completely ignoring what he had been trying to tell her, then continuing on to ruin parts of the crime scene. Sherlock was probably furious that he couldn’t manipulate her into doing what he wanted. Nerves of steel, that woman.

                John had been asleep for what seemed to be minutes when he jerked awake to his mobile ringing. He glanced down at the small number indicating the time, 9:14am. He groaned and answered. Blocked number again.

                “Mm… Hello? Mycroft?” said John sleepily.

                “My apologies for waking you John, but my team has done all they can to recover the footage, and I would like you to come and take a look. A car will be waiting outside Baker Street in ten minutes.” John had no time to reply before the line went dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here is where the fun begins. Please let me know if there are any continuity errors since this is the first big fic I've written and it's sometimes hard for me to take a step back and look at the whole of it. Thanks for reading! <3


	5. Tangerines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a longer chapter for your troubles (since I was late last time and I suck at being on time). I told you things would pick up! :)

                John didn’t know why, but he was expecting there to be more chaos. Mycroft’s tone rarely let on how he was feeling or the stress he was under, but the past few hours had been an exception to this. John could tell as soon as he walked in Mycroft’s office that the man was just as worried as he had sounded on the phone, if not more so. His shoulders tense, slight wrinkles on his brow. He greeted John with a tight smile.

                “Ah, now that you’re here, I would like you to watch the footage my team was able to recover.”

                John walked around the politician’s desk and Mycroft turned his laptop towards John. He bent down to get a better look. The screen was split into four parts, each of these showing a room of Baker Street: the living room, the kitchen, Sherlock and John’s bedrooms. John was a little surprised – and angry – that his privacy had been breached in such a fashion. He looked back at Mycroft with a frown.

                The other man, ignoring John’s look, continued on: “I will fast forward the footage from a few hours before and up until the event, then you will see what we have found.” Mycroft pressed play.

                John watched as he saw himself fuss around for a couple of seconds before heading off to bed. After a few more seconds, he saw Sherlock come in and basically fall into bed with all of his clothes on, including his shoes. John noticed that Sherlock’s room was not in the same clean state as he had seen before, although the bed was clear of anything detrimental for sleeping. About a minute later, when the clock on the side of the monitor said 2am, Mycroft paused the footage.

                “As you can see, nothing seems amiss other than my brother’s apparent exhaustion, but watch the next few seconds carefully.”

                He pressed play to resume the video as it now played at normal speed. John stared closely at the screen, and he almost missed the flickering lights outside Sherlock’s window before the screens screeched and whited out. When the light dissipated and the cameras came back online, Sherlock was gone. He had vanished completely. Mycroft stopped the video.

                “Play it again,” John said tersely.

                Mycroft said nothing as he restarted the footage. John watched again, more intensely this time, determined not to miss anything. After the flash of light, the room appeared to be in the clean state John had seen yesterday and missing one Consulting Detective.

                He looked back at Mycroft after the video had finished.

                “What do you think, Mycroft?” John certainly didn’t know what to think.

                “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

                It seemed the elder Holmes was just as lost.

                John watched the video three more times, pausing at the moment where Sherlock seemed to vanish before his very eyes, rewinding and watching again. Mycroft let him do as he wished, sitting back and thinking while waiting for John to be finished.

                John’s back was starting to hurt because of the awkward position, so after pausing the video for the last time, he straightened and walked around to the chair opposite Mycroft and sat down. Both men exchanged concerned looks. Mycroft was the first to speak.

                “While there is not much in this video, there is something to be gleaned from this unusual and, frankly, disturbing occurrence. There is something larger here at work.”

                John gave Mycroft a confused look, and when the elder Holmes refrained from elaborating, John said: “What do you mean?”

                Mycroft’s face hardened. “It means that this might become a bit more complicated than we originally thought.”

 

* * *

 

                Sherlock was sat on his cot, looking out at the visitors his cell and those next to his received. It seemed that while the majority were the aliens he had seen before, some were quite different looking. It would be hard to describe them, but they were mostly bipedal with arms and a head of some sort. Sherlock also noticed that they appeared to stay with certain groups of the yellow-eyed aliens. He couldn’t tell if either type had any distinct markers for certain genders, seemingly all androgynous.

                He had also spent some time closely examining his surroundings, primarily the walls. There didn’t appear to be any doors or windows, only a small vent up in a corner that was much too small for him to fit through. He knew there must be, otherwise how could he have come to be trapped here?

                He had also examined the glass from afar, but was apprehensive of the eyes looking in. He didn’t like the feeling of being watched.

                Sherlock tried to listen to what the aliens were saying outside the glass, but it was impossible to determine their meaning, obviously. Their language was nothing like those of Earth, but Sherlock had tried to pick up on their speech pattern. It kept part of his brain occupied, while another thought of an escape plan, no matter how futile it might seem.

                A small part of him thought of John. Would he wonder where Sherlock had gone? He felt as though he had gotten at least 7 hours sleep – he was good at keeping track of how much he slept. John would have woken up and found Sherlock gone. Surely he would be worried, as would his brother, unfortunately.

                Mycroft. Of course. He would know something was up as soon as Sherlock had disappeared. Sherlock silently – and reluctantly – thanked Mycroft for the extra surveillance that he had placed on him. It would enable him to be found much sooner, he hoped.

                He could feel his body becoming warmer and the blanket soon became uncomfortable. Sherlock was reluctant at first, but realised the aliens couldn’t possibly care whether he was nude or not. The only thing stopping him was his modesty.

                Suddenly, he heard a noise on the right side of the room. A small panel had opened up to reveal a tray with a cup and a pile of tangerines and apples. Sherlock stared at it for a second, eyeing the six fingered hand retreating quickly and watched the panel close seamlessly into the wall.

                _That’s interesting._

                He looked back at the glass wall, and sure enough there were a couple of beings watching him. He stared back, determined to be as uninteresting as possible. Some moved away, but there were one or two stubborn ones. Unfortunately, his transport was demanding food; he had not eaten since John had last force-fed him, which had probably been days ago.

_Well fine. Let’s all watch the strange human eat food. How bloody entertaining._

                He stood up and walked slowly with the blanket around his waist over to the tray. He grabbed the tray with one hand and returned to his cot. The cup appeared to have water in it.

                He set the tray down beside him and started to peel one of the tangerines, putting the pieces in his lap on top of the blanket. While it had been some time since he had last had an orange of any sort (perhaps in Florida helping out his future landlady?), he hadn’t deleted how to eat one properly. When he looked over at the glass wall, he noticed that the beings had been watching him with looks of apparent fascination.

                He had yet to speak since his incarceration – his capture. He gave the beings the most foul look he could muster and said loudly, “Would you FUCK OFF!?”

                This had apparently been a bad idea. Many of the beings that had been looking at the other cages whirled around to the best of their ability to face him, and those watching him seemed to draw closer. That just made him even angrier. He stood up, holding up the blanket with one hand.

                “You imbeciles do not seem to realise that I happen to be a very intelligent human being capable of discerning whether or not he is being made a fool of." His voice felt rusty from disuse. "I am not some dumb, stupid animal! I refuse to be treated as such!” He chucked the tangerine he had been holding at the glass with all his strength. It made a small, albeit spectacular, explosion of juice and chunks and got the attention of the rest of the aliens in the vicinity. Even some of those stupid monkeys appeared to be watching him. Sherlock’s glee only lasted a couple of seconds before he realised what he had done.

                He tried to calm his breathing and sat back down. Now he had gone and done it. They would never think he was more than an idiotic animal now. A pet in their zoo.

                He could not allow this. What the hell had he been thinking?! Letting his emotions get the better of him for the first time in years. He closed his eyes and tried to think of John, of his calming voice. It helped a small amount, but the anger simmered near the surface.

                He determinedly ate the rest of the fruit without looking up, placing all the excess peels and cores on the tray. He then took a sip of water, which tasted a bit funny. Sherlock thought they probably had added vitamins to it. Or something to make him calm, possibly.

                After he was finished, he put the tray back around the area he had found it. A few seconds later, after he had walked a few feet away, the panel opened and a hand snatched the tray away. The panel then morphed seamlessly back into the wall again.

                Sherlock’s hands were still sticky from the fruit juices, and he wiped them on his blanket. He tried to calculate in his head how long he had been gone, hoping that John and Mycroft could find him.

                He was slowly starting to doubt they ever would.

                A while later, the groups of aliens seemed to abate. He had spent most of this time rearranging his Mind Palace and cataloguing any new information he had received from these strange creatures, whether or not he could derive any meaning from it. The lights suddenly dimmed to the degree where he could barely make out anything in his cell. Sherlock figured that must mean that it was night, or what passed for it in this wretched place. He fell asleep on the hard cot after what seemed like forever, listening to the noises from the other cells – _exhibits_ , he thought bitterly – curling up in a ball and thinking; of home, his own soft bed. And John. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry if Sherlock sounds a bit piney and OOC, but you must understand. He has had no precident to this particular predicament. And he is decidedly better at hiding his piney-ness in the show, ok?  
> Again, if there's something wrong (like typos or something doesn't sound right, because despite what people may believe, I'm not British) let me know so I can fix it sooner rather than later, I'd rather not have to come back and fix a small thing after the story is pretty much done. :P  
> Thanks for reading!


	6. Complicated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there! Another decent chapter for you guys.  
> Hope you like it! Just kidding, I know you're all going to cringe and hate me for it.

                Sherlock was startled awake by a loud clanging sound. He bolted upright on his cot, hair flying, and whipped his head towards the sound. A panel very similar but larger than the one that had brought him food opened up and he saw one of the aliens come through, holding what might be a weapon of some sort. It wasn’t wearing anything save for all sorts of straps all over its body, with different things tied on them. Sherlock observed its size and body language before it had even taken a few steps. This was the message he received: cooperate or else.

                That was the last thing he wanted to do, but he was in unfamiliar territory, possibly even in an unfamiliar universe – _good God_ – so he would reluctantly comply. For now.

                The being walked a few steps towards him and Sherlock moved to stand up. It aimed its weapon at him, so Sherlock moved even more slowly. He had the blanket wrapped around his hips and was holding it with one hand. The being said something in its own language and gestured for Sherlock to exit through the panel. As he moved towards it, the alien said something a bit more forcefully and indicated to Sherlock’s blanket.

                “What, leave this?” Sherlock asked, gesturing to his blanket with his free hand.

                The alien made a sound, which could have been anything, but Sherlock took it as a yes.

                After a moment of hesitation, he left the blanket on the cot and walked nude over to the panel opening, hunching his shoulders slightly. The alien watched him closely, probably looking for any sudden movements. As he passed by, he got an up close and personal look at the being. Sherlock tried to observe as much as he could from this brief but informative interaction, noting that it seemed to be similar to the aliens that had been ogling him from outside his cage.

                He walked out into what looked like a thin hallway, and the alien followed him. The panel closed behind it as it exited and the alien started to herd Sherlock down towards one end of the hallway. The floors were smooth, and Sherlock was glad for it since he was barefoot. He had, in fact, had to walk barefoot on gravel at one point earlier in his childhood and it hadn’t been fun. They continued on down the hallway, taking two rights and a left past doors he could barely distinguish. They blended almost seamlessly into the walls, but Sherlock’s eye was able to catch the slight differences.

                They eventually arrived at another door. The alien spoke in its language and gestured for Sherlock to stop. The door was marked this time with some symbols Sherlock couldn’t even hope to decipher. The alien walked past him, still keeping its weapon pointed at him, and pressed a few places on the door. Sherlock memorized their placement instantly, storing this information in his Mind Palace and making sure to label it under ‘ESCAPE’. The door promptly opened and Sherlock stopped and tried to take in what he was seeing, horror slowly creeping up into his throat.

                Inside were a variety of instruments that looked suspiciously like lab equipment. There were three cots in the middle of the room and around them were tables with things that resembled blades, clamps, tubing, as well as monitors and an array of colourful buttons surrounding said monitors. As the alien pushed him forward with its weapon, Sherlock looked around frantically for somewhere to go, but there seemed to be only one way in or out of this room. There was no escaping without finding out what that weapon would do to him if he tried. Not happening.

                The alien directed him over to the closest cot, which Sherlock had just noticed also came with wrist and ankle cuffs and gestured with his weapon for Sherlock to climb up. He turned around with a panicked look and tried to talk to his jailor.

                “What? No, I- please, you- please, I’ll be good, I won’t throw my food anymore!” Sherlock begged, hoping to stall. He put his hands up and tried to back away. “I don’t want- please don’t hurt me.” If only his enemies could see him now, begging pathetically for his life. The Woman would be envious.

                The alien said something in what Sherlock guessed was a forceful tone, gesturing more aggressively towards him.

                “No please, I don’t- I won’t become a subject for experimentation!”

                The alien, apparently fed up with Sherlock’s begging, pulled a much smaller weapon from its many straps and pointed it towards him. Before Sherlock could protest further the alien shot him. It was like getting hit by a Taser, or at least something akin to it; Sherlock couldn’t be sure since his experience with electrocution was mercifully small. Sherlock collapsed, convulsing on the floor for a couple of seconds before going still, a scream caught in his throat. He groaned as the alien put its weapons back on their holders and picked him up, placing him none too gently on the cot. It quickly lashed his arms and legs to the cot.

                When Sherlock regained his faculties after a minute, he realised what had just happened. The cot was cold against his bare skin and gooseflesh rose up on his arms and legs. He pulled and yanked hard on the restraints but they refused to budge. Inside, he stared to panic even more and tried to control his breathing as best he could, but his heart was beating a mile a minute.

                Sherlock looked around quickly, noting that the alien with the weapons was now replaced with two others, both without a scrap of clothing. Sherlock noted absently the subtle differences between them, comparing their size, skin tone. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much to go on for him, since they looked very similar, but the larger one came up to him and said something. It sounded softer than the tone the other alien – the guard – had used, probably trying to calm Sherlock down. It wasn’t working.

                Sherlock shook his head. “I-,” he croaked, voice dry from his brief electrocution. “I have no idea what you’re saying. Please, I just want to go home. Just let me go, please.” His logical thought was being overwhelmed with fear of the unknown – it was rare that Sherlock Holmes didn’t know something, and when he didn’t, well, that’s what he had John for. He felt tears of terror well up in his eyes.

                The larger alien said something else to him in its soft tone and put its hand gently on Sherlock’s shoulder. He flinched instinctively, but he couldn’t move far. Its hand was warm, almost reassuring, and after his initial shock Sherlock felt himself calming down a bit. Stupid transport.

                Then the hand moved away, and the smaller alien that had been standing back as the other spoke to him came forward with some wires and tubing, passing them to the other alien. The larger took these and set them down next to the instruments at the bedside, then brought up some sort of mask. It reminded Sherlock a lot of the anesthetic masks they use in those god-awful telly shows John made him watch. He shook his head back and forth, his breathing and heart rate increasing again.

                “No, please- don’t-”

                The smaller alien came around and held his head in place while the larger gently lowered the mask to his mouth and nose. Sherlock tried to hold his breath and shake his head out of the strong grip. This didn’t last long. After a minute of refusal he had to let his breath go and breathed in the air from the mask. The larger alien had been speaking in its gentle tone, and after a couple of panting breaths Sherlock felt something heavy slowly envelop his brain, pulling him under. His pale eyes stared into its strange yellow ones. His last thought was that he hadn’t even been able to say goodbye to John.

                “John…” he sighed, losing focus as he plunged into a deep darkness.

                                                                                

* * *

 

 

                John just stared at Mycroft for a few seconds.

                “Complicated,” John repeated.

                “Indeed,” Mycroft intoned.

                “Alright, so I’m assuming this is the bad kind of complicated since you haven’t got a location on him yet.” John smirked at the elder Holmes.

                “Unfortunately,” said Mycroft, rising from his chair.

                John stood up as well and followed the politician out of his office.

                Mycroft escorted John out personally. Both were quiet until they came out to the car that was waiting to take John home.

                “You think he might have been…”

                “Kidnapped?” finished Mycroft. “I am not entirely counting out the possibility.”

                “Should I call Lestrade? If Sherlock is missing we need all the help we can get,” said John.

                “No, I think this might be beyond what mediocre help Scotland Yard may be able to provide us. Go home, John. I will continue to look for answers and I will let you know if I find anything more of interest.” Mycroft turned away and strode back inside.

                _Poncy bastard,_ thought John. _Although, he is probably one of the very few people on this earth who could find Sherlock._

                                                                                                

* * *

 

 

                The ride back to Baker Street is a quiet one. John had long since given up trying to make small talk with Mycroft’s minions. They were trained very well not to talk to the clientele, no matter how many times the clients (John) may be kidnapped. Regardless, John was a gentleman, so as he got out of the car he thanked the driver, closing the door without too much force. He watched as the car peeled away slowly back into traffic, anonymous among many.

                As he entered, he heard someone call his name. Mrs. Hudson was back.

                “Oh, John dear, it’s so good to see you,” she said, the cheer evident in her voice.

                “Welcome back, Mrs. Hudson,” John smiled tensely at her, keeping his conflicting emotions in check. “You’re back early! Need any help with anything? How was your trip?”

                “No, no, don’t worry dear. I had one of Mrs. Turner’s boys help me bring my bags inside a little while ago. We had such a lovely time, although without you and Sherlock around, running about and stirring things up a bit, I say things were starting to get a little dull. And now I’ve gone and sounded just like him, silly man. Where _has_ he run off to, John?”

                John had zoned out a bit during Mrs. Hudson’s rambling, but he came to attention when she asked him about Sherlock. He didn’t want to worry her too much, so he said: “I think he’s off somewhere on his own. I haven’t been able to reach him, but hopefully he will be back sometime soon. He had some experiments going on that looked a bit dubious, if you ask me. And that’s coming from experience.” He hoped she would buy his white lie.

                “Oh, that man should know better than to go gallivanting off on his own without you. I think he sometimes forgets…” she trailed off.

                “Yeah, he does that,” John stated somberly.

                “Well, don’t you worry, John. I’m sure he’ll be back soon, he’d be lost without you.”

                “Yeah,” John repeated, unconvinced.

                Mrs. Hudson looked at John for a moment. “Why you come in for some tea? I was just about to make some for myself, and I might even have some biscuits in the cupboard.”

                “That sounds lovely.” John said and followed her into her flat, closing the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Mrs. Hudson.  
> Please feel free to coment/kudos if you like, let me know what you think! Also let me know if there's something wonky with the story, for example typos or inconsistencies, please let me know so I can fix them right away!
> 
> And now a word (more like many, MANY words) from our resident author (feel free to ignore this):
> 
> I just wanted to say that you're awesome for sticking it out with me. It's difficult (for me) to find the motivation to write, let alone publish things to the internet where they can be read by anyone, anytime, anyplace. When I first started writing this, this chapter didn't exist. I only had this wierd little ficlet thing that I thought might turn into something, but never really did. Now I have over 10k words and counting (cuz this thing is gonna be a whopper, I hope) and I can't thank you enough for your interest. While these updates/chapters are fairly short compared to many a good fanfic I've had the privilege to read (for FREE), I want you guys to know that I plan on sticking this out to the bitter end (with or without consistent updates, I'm sorry to say). The story is finished, I just need to put words on the page! I don't want to let anyone down. I just want to contribute to this awesome community.
> 
> Ok, that's enough rambling now. Thanks for reading! <3


	7. Experiment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So don't hate me, but things are about to take a turn for the weirder.  
> I'd like to call this one an 'Oh shit' chapter, but there will be even more crazy developments and some more explanation from here on out. Make sure you check the tags for updates and I will post warnings before chapters as well. Onwards!

                The next time Sherlock woke up, he was surprised to find himself in a white room. He deduced that he had been unconscious for some time, his limbs felt heavy and stiff, but that might also be a side effect of whatever drug they gave him as anesthetic. He was lying on a cot not unlike the one from his cell. He was covered in another blanket too, but this time he could sense something was different. White light shone down harshly from the ceiling. He sat up slowly and assessed that this must have been one of the barest rooms he’d ever been in. Aside from the bed and blanket, the only other thing of note was the door – or what he assumed was a door – with its very slight outline in the wall.

                He could feel that there was some sort of bandage on his right ear. He noted absently that he was no longer restrained as he lifted his hand to check the bandage and found that it was very soft, yet thin. It only covered the top two thirds of his ear, leaving the bottom to stick out weirdly. Whoever had put it there had made sure none of what was making this bandage adhesive got in his hair, which he was somewhat thankful for. Pulling out his hair hurt.

                Suddenly the door opened, the sound made Sherlock flinch and then whip his gaze around to it. He felt the heaviness from his limbs fall away as two aliens walked in, one with straps like the guard that had taken Sherlock from his cell, and the other with nothing but a thin rectangular pad. Sherlock guessed this must be like some sort of tablet.

                Then one of them spoke.

                It was so strange. He heard the sounds coming from its mouth through his bandaged ear, and although slightly muffled, he was able to translate their meaning.

                “Hello there, do you have a name?”

                Sherlock gaped. How could he understand what this alien was saying? The one that had spoken, the one with the pad, came a bit closer. The other one with the straps eyed him closely with a hand on its weapon hanging from its belt.

                “Do you have a name?” the smaller one repeated, which didn’t help Sherlock’s shock. Its voice sounded melodic and higher pitched, kind of like a woman’s.

                He figured he should at least answer it and figure out how this was possible later. How he was able to understand this foreign alien language without even learning any of it before?

                “Sh-Sherlock Holmes.” Wow. He had almost said that without his voice shaking.

                “Ah, so the female _can_ understand,” said the larger alien.

                “It actually works,” replied the smaller, looking over to its companion. “I can’t believe it. This was only a prototype, but it seems to be perfectly functional.” It looked over at Sherlock again. “There doesn’t appear to be any damage done to her, but we should still do some tests to make sure the subject doesn’t acquire any long lasting side effects.”

                Sherlock watched this exchange, his face scrunching up as he became more and more frustrated at his grasp on what was happening. Then things clicked horribly into place.

                “Who _are_ you,” he said in a guttural voice, all shaking gone, cutting off what the smaller was going to say next. “Also, for that matter, _what_ are you? You think you can just pick me up like some sort of wild animal – a _subject_ to experiment on – and not expect objection to this? You cannot simply take a living, sentient human being and make him your _pet!_ I am my own person and I will not be subjugated to such treatment!”

                He didn’t realise until he had stopped that he had stood up. The larger alien had gripped its weapon tighter and the smaller took a step back. Again, Sherlock was completely naked. His cheeks flushed red despite his logical mind telling him that modesty didn’t matter here, that his scars and genitalia didn’t matter, but Sherlock stood determined and continued.

                “And I don’t know if it has occurred to either of you, but I do have a life. Back in London. On _Earth_. I will be missed. They will know I’ve disappeared and my brother will do everything in his power to find me. And since you do indeed exist – _aliens_ exist – I’m sure he now knows that for certain as well.” Sherlock squinted at them. “So, whatever you’ve done to me, I wish for it to be reversed and to be sent back to my planet. You are obviously out of your depth when it comes to humans and their temperaments. Oh and for the record, despite how I may look, I am _male_ ,” he added, glaring at the larger alien.

                Both aliens were shocked at the ferocity of his words. Then the smaller alien laughed, or what Sherlock thought might be a laugh. It was very strange to say the least.

                “Well, you certainly have much to say, Sherlock Holmes.” The smaller one took a couple steps closer to him, only a few feet away now. “I had my doubts, but finally having a human here alive in the flesh surely strengthens my arguments, even if it doesn’t know its own gender. Your species is incredibly intelligent, and although you are still hundreds of your lifetimes away from reaching our level of technology, I have no doubt you will achieve it eventually.”

                Sherlock decided not to get into gender identity with the alien. Maybe it was only a human thing. “Then what is this?” He pointed to his bandaged ear.

                “Oh, that is my own personal design,” the alien seemed to gloat. “It is a prototype that enables you to understand us, and us you. It connects directly into your brain and filters any language into understandable data to you. It then uses this data as a template and enables your brain to use this language to speak back to us. Although for us your word structure is heavily accented with some mispronunciations and at times your syntax is mixed up. When you speak to us, your brain must be confused as to how your sentences are configured after processing. This is fascinating… I’m sure for you our meaning is perfectly clear. My prototype took forever to develop, and even longer to perfect.” 

                The consulting detective lifted his hand to his bandaged ear again. He could feel a slight throbbing, and though that might have just been his erratic heartbeat he could feel something foreign beneath his skin. _How is that even possible? Such delicate work… they’re lucky they didn’t damage me!_

                “What do you want from me?” asked Sherlock, changing the subject and dropping his hand. “Surely you could have gotten any information you desired about Earth and its inhabitants and then left us alone. If you hadn’t noticed, humans don’t take kindly to things we don’t understand, and though it pains me to admit it, I find that you lot seem as intriguing and mysterious as you seem dangerous.” He looked over at the large alien with its hand still on its weapon.

                “What you say intrigues me as well, Sherlock Holmes,” the smaller alien cocked its head. “Although I don’t think you understand the gravity of the situation.” It looked back at the larger alien, then back to Sherlock. “Let me put it this way: has your species ever wondered if it was alone in the universe? If there was anyone else out there who understood that feeling? Then how do you think my people felt when we discovered that your planet, though almost impossibly far, also contains life. Not just single cell organisms, or even tiny bacteria. No. Actual, complex organisms, different and yet similar to our own.” It threw its hand up in the air, the one not holding the tablet, for emphasis. “Even our body language and mannerisms are alike! Don’t you see?!”

                Sherlock had stood ramrod straight through the alien’s rant, and with dread he realised where it might be going with this.

                “See what?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

                “That this is the most important event that has ever happened to our people,” it replied. Looking at him with determination, it said: “Your species is proof that there is more to us than meets the eye.” Sherlock didn’t like the way it had said ‘us’. He liked what it said next even less.

                “And with your help, we will study you and your kind and find out how to make you cooperate.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told you Sherlock was a girl's name in the tags, didn't I? ;)  
> I've always been facinated with gender, and I didn't see anything wrong with Sherlock as a trans character. It's probably one of my favorite headcannons. If it's not your cup of tea, however, just ignore those bits if you have to. I won't be throwing things in your face about it.  
> Also, since this is my first time writing a trans charater, if I offend anyone, please let me know so I can try to fix the problem. (Unfortunately, there might be some things I won't be able to fix if they are a main part of the plot, but I will do my best to not be a jerk.)  
> Thank you so much for sticking with me, please let me know what you guys think. See you next week! <3


	8. Research and Pints

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this update is a bit short, there's a huge part coming up and this didn't really fit with it, so I decided to splice it.  
> This story isn't just going to be all fun and aliens. ;)

              John was stumped.

              After having a nice chat with Mrs. Hudson about her trip (the details of which he had already forgotten) he had gone back up to his flat and straight onto his computer to do some research. After a few hours of searching proved fruitless – words like ‘flash of light’ and ‘kidnappings’ together dredged up some pretty strange results – he sat back, puzzled.

_Well that settles it then,_ John thought caustically. _He was obviously abducted by aliens._

              He closed his laptop with a frustrated sigh.

              It was Sunday afternoon by then, so he decided to call Lestrade and let him know about the Sherlock situation. Not that there was much to tell, since anything strange he noticed probably wouldn’t be a good idea to share with the DI at the moment. He just wanted to talk to someone and escape the deafening silence of his flat.

              Greg picked up on the fifth ring.

              “John, I was just going to call you today, heard anything new?”

              “Unfortunately not,” replied John. “Looks like it might be a while before you get that statement about the landscaper case.”

              “Ah, well, there’s nothing for it anyway. I think we’ve enough evidence to put him away for a while, as long as everything goes over well with the trial. I’ve still got some paperwork left, but did you want to meet up later for a drink?” Greg sounded uncharacteristically enthusiastic.

              “Yeah, sure Greg. Our usual then? Text me when you’re finished.”

              “Will do,” he said. John rung off. His phone told him that it was 2:43pm.

_Nothing for it I guess,_ John thought. There wasn’t much he could do other than wait to see if Mycroft could salvage anything else from those tapes. John did a bit of the washing-up in the kitchen and put a load of laundry on. He then settled on the couch and turned on the telly, hoping to kill a few hours before meeting up with Greg. There were some re-runs of Doctor Who on.

_What the hell_ , he thought sarcastically, _might as well do a little homework._

                                                                              

* * *

 

 

              Hours later and one pint already finished was how Greg found his friend at the pub. He sat down beside John, nodding in greeting and getting himself and John another pint each.

              “How are you, Greg?” asked John, as the bartended replaced his empty drink with another full one.

              “Fine. Great actually,” he replied happily. “Sorry about being a bit late, as soon as I texted you Mills called about something pertaining to a previous case and she was wondering if I could go over it tomorrow morning with her. She may be a stubborn woman, but she hasn’t hesitated to ask me about paperwork.” He chuckled. “I’m glad she’s not been scared off by Sherlock, either. It’s refreshing.”

              “Ha, well Greg, I say you’ve got yourself a keeper there. Not too many newbies, at least that I’ve seen, have been able to stand being in the same room as him for more than five minutes without crying or stomping off in a huff.” John smiled and he swore he saw Greg’s eyes twinkle a little. “So, you like this woman, huh?”

              “She definitely has potential,” he answered. “She just transferred from a station in America actually. Apparently she wanted a change of scenery, something to do with a series of strange deaths. Might be right up Sherlock’s alley, come to think of it. Doesn’t talk about her personal life much, though I’m not one to pry.” He cleared his throat. “But enough about that, how are you, John? We haven’t spoken much since, well…” he left his last sentence hanging.

              “Since Mary,” finished John, taking a big gulp of his drink. “Yeah.”

              The rest of their evening dampened slightly in spirit, but they had a good time of it. John learned a bit more about the new member of Lestrade’s team, Abbie Mills. She was apparently one of the best forensics lead they had had in a while, despite being new. He was glad things were working out for the Inspector.

              When he got home that night, however, his mood faded even darker. While catching up with Greg was great, he still hurt about Mary’s death. These revisited feelings on top of John’s ever increasing worry about Sherlock were taking a toll on him. And he had work in the morning. Fan- _bloody_ -tastic.

              Just before he was ready to head upstairs to his room for the night, he checked Sherlock’s room again. Turning on the light, he saw nothing had changed since his latest snoop. He glanced briefly out the window, but could see nothing in the darkness. He didn’t know what he was expecting. Maybe for Sherlock to just magically appear? Having crawled through the window, having evaded Mycroft’s CCTV cameras all this time? He shook his head, shut off the light, quietly closed the door and retreated up to his room.

              It took John hours to fall asleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, that is a Sleepy Hollow reference. Although she is Lieutenant Abigail Mills in the show, I've decided she would definitely make a good replacement for Anderson in this AU.  
> Again, sorry for the short update, but trust me, this is the calm before the storm. (Of sadness.)  
> See you next week! <3


	9. It's All in the Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the late update, technically it's still Monday where I live ;)  
> I had a hard time with these two upcoming chapters, since I don't have much experience with grief this deep. Most of it is what I think their reactions would be. If you couldn't already tell, this chap is a bit angsty sad (or cheesey sad).  
> Warnings for depictions of character death and other bad stuff. Please be advised.

                Only a couple of people other than John knew most of the details (namely Sherlock and Lestrade, and of course Mycroft) while others only knew bits and pieces about what had happened to his wife and child.

                Almost a week after what John would come to call the ‘Magnussen Incident’, Sherlock and Mycroft had finally found the person behind the Moriarty message. It was a fanatic who had decided to act at the most fortuitous of times (accidentally, of course). Hacking every wireless screen in England had been quite a feat – the culprit had been revealed as an underling of Moriarty’s network who had gone so deep underground that no one knew he existed until the message was broadcasted. Even though it was obvious that this was an empty threat, it took the brothers days to wrap up the case entirely and catch the very skilled hacker. This would bring Sherlock back permanently, in case other members of Moriarty’s following decided to pursue their plans for revenge to more extreme degrees.

                At the same time, however, Mary, only a day after returning home from the airport, fell unconscious in John and Mary’s kitchen. John hadn’t been in the room at the time. He came in a few minutes later, having just finished a shower and found her on the ground with a slowly growing puddle of blood beneath her. Sherlock was busy focusing on and taking care of his Moriarty problem, so John was the only one there to take Mary to the hospital. She was rushed into the ER, and John was told to wait outside.

                It was too early for the baby to be born; John had thought about all the horrible complications that might arise. When one of the doctors came in to speak with him, as soon as he saw the look on her face, he paled. The doctor explained that because of some serious complications, they had a choice: either save Mary or their child. She also said that he could talk to Mary very briefly, as she had regained consciousness for now but was very weak. John walked quickly with her to Mary’s room.

                It was horrible. There was a nurse standing beside her on the far side of the bed, so John ran up to her and grabbed her shaking hand. He sat hard into the chair beside the bed and gave her a quick once over, his breaths coming in short gasps. She was so pale, the circles under her eyes almost black in stark contrast. She was hooked up to so many wires and tubes. He felt tears well up in his eyes.

                Her eyes almost seemed to focus on his face. “John?” she whispered.

                “Don’t worry Mary, everything is going to be alright, the doctors can save you,” he said with conviction.

                “John,” she said again, her tone soft. “The doctors told me.” She took a shuddering breath. “Either me or the baby.”

                John couldn’t respond, he only nodded.

                Mary closed her eyes. John was hyperaware of the other people in the room; the doctor and the nurse standing aside. They could tell the couple needed to be alone.

                “You have a few minutes,” said the doctor, ushering the nurse out, leaving the couple to make their decision.

                Then, Mary opened her eyes, looked right at John and said, “Her, John. You need to save her.” She placed a feeble hand on her stomach.

                “No,” John retorted. “I can’t… We’ll- we can try again but-”

                “John,” Mary interrupted, “I don’t want to.”

                Her husband was taken aback. “What?! Why?”

                “I can’t do it anymore.” A tear slid down her cheek. “I can’t make you suffer anymore. I won’t do it. I love you, John, but I can’t do this to you anymore.”

                John stared at her in disbelief as she continued. “The only reason I’m still here is because of you. If it weren’t for you, I would have died all those months ago.”

                She pulled her hand from his, hating the circumstances of their meeting even more than before. John leaned down and she placed her hand on his cheek. “Please, can you do this for me?” she asked instead.

                These words sparked anger in John and he made his anger show through his desperate face. The last time someone had spoken those words, his world had all but ended.

                “Please,” she repeated, her voice strained. John could see the sob working its way through the last few barriers she had.

                “I…” John didn’t finish his thought before her hand fell. There was beeping, and a team rushed in moments later. Code blue, they said. John was shoved out of the way and one of the nurses steered him out right before the team rushed out with Mary.

                John reached out just in time to catch the doctor he had spoken to earlier, and had just the presence of mind to say “The baby, she said-” before she turned back towards the rush of people. Just as they were about to enter the doors that led to the operating theatre, she turned towards John and nodded once. Then they were gone.

 

* * *

 

                Later, they would tell him that Mary had died from blood loss, that there was no way they could have saved her. Their baby had gone without oxygen for only a short minute before the team was able to get her out via caesarian-section. She was about seven and a half months, with a better chance of survival. If she could hold out the first week there was a good chance she could make it.

                After three days of constant vigilance and five visits from John, she developed [IRDS](http://www.childrenshospital.org/conditions-and-treatments/conditions/infant-respiratory-distress-syndrome-hyaline-membrane-disease) accompanying other complications, which had steadily and quickly gotten worse and worse. The doctors tried everything, but in the end it didn’t matter. John was with her when she took her last small, laboured breath.

                Sherlock, having only heard hours after the death of John’s baby about what had happened, rushed over to the hospital only to find John still sitting in a chair outside the premature babies unit with his head in his hands. He approached the army doctor slowly, cursing Mycroft and his useless surveillance team for not notifying him sooner. Not that he could have done anything to prevent it. Still, no matter how illogical the reason, he should have been there for his best friend.

                “John,” he said quietly. Despite hearing him approach, John jumped at his voice. He looked up into his friend’s eyes, and Sherlock saw the look of a man who had just lost everything. It was eerily familiar.

                “I… I’m so very sorry, John,” he started. But before he could say more John stood up and wrapped his arms around him firmly, pressing his face to his friend’s chest. Sherlock was startled, but deftly wrapped his arms around John’s shoulders in return and felt John’s arms squeeze him tighter.

                They stood there for some time in this tight embrace. Sherlock muttered fruitless apologies over and over while John’s shoulders shook in his grief, for Mary, for his baby, for a chance at a normal life. A life with a beautiful daughter and a beautiful wife and a best friend who would do anything to keep them all safe. There was no doubt this time his normal family – his dream family – was dead.

                When he had stopped shaking he slowly let go of Sherlock. He took a couple of deep breaths, eyes downcast, then turned towards the lift with military precision and walked towards it without a word. John knew Mycroft would have a car waiting for them outside; he wanted to get out of that wretched place as soon as possible. There was nothing left for him there now. He turned the corner and pressed the button for the lift, hands clenched. If he had looked back, he knew he wouldn’t have been able to stop himself from weeping again, from collapsing in his grief. If he had looked back, he would have seen the redness of the detective’s eyes and the wet mark on his cheek as it glistened under the harsh fluorescent lights.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope its ok (and not insanely cheesey). I may have taken liberties with some of the hospital stuff. More angsty sadness to come in the next chapter, unfortunately.  
> Thanks for sticking with me, as I said before this fic will most likely be long and arduous. And also definitely let me know if there are weird things going on, or just what you think of the story so far, I love hearing from you people. <3


	10. Apologies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's the next chapter. It's a bit longer, but just as sad as the last one. Again, trigger warning for past minor/major character death and much angst.

                The funeral was a small affair. Even less people had come than to John and Mary’s wedding. Some of John and Mary’s close friends, as well as Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. There wasn’t a dry eye in the group. Sherlock stood next to John, who was just staring vacantly at the large and small coffins, side by side. John had said absently that Mary would want to be close to their daughter. John had named her Elizabeth, after Mary. Elizabeth Jane Watson.

                As Sherlock stood watching over the crowd, his eyes trained on the smaller of the two coffins. A pang of regret stabbed him suddenly, low in his belly. It was illogical, he knew that, but he still felt that maybe if he had been there, he would have deduced the signs of respiratory distress in the small, fragile, would-have-been addition to their strange little family. _Survivor’s guilt_ , he thought, _so stupid._ Maybe that’s what it was. Or maybe not.

                He looked back at John as the pastor droned on, too distracted to even give a mental eye-roll.

 _Doesn’t matter_ , _I have to be there for John now. Analysis can wait._

                When everything was said and done, good-byes expressed and coffins lowered into the freshly dug earth, Sherlock bundled John up into a black car and they drove back to Baker Street. John had been staying there for the few days leading up to the funeral, trying and failing to plan the bloody thing last minute. Luckily, Sherlock was just as good at planning a wedding as he was a funeral. Who would have thought?

                John knew it would come eventually. The sharp sting – no, the sharp wedge of pain of full realisation. After his first bout of tears with Sherlock at the hospital, John hadn’t cried. He should have by now, shouldn’t he have? He couldn’t even pretend that the two most important women in his life at that time were still alive, and yet John felt numb. He had _seen_ them, in their coffins side by side being physically lowered in the earth. It was fact.

                And yet.

                John was surprised to find himself in his chair. When had they gotten home? Was the funeral over already?

                He heard Sherlock in the kitchen. Clinking sounds of two mugs being placed on the counter were loud against the tense silence of the flat. A few minutes later, a hot cup was held up in front of him. He stared at it for a second before grabbing it with his steady left hand. Sherlock sat down across from him with his own cup, eyes focused intensely on the steam rising from its brim.

                Sherlock would rarely make tea if John was around to do it himself. John stared at him absently. They said nothing, Sherlock occasionally blowing on his cup and John occasionally blinking.

                Before the silence became overwhelming, Sherlock looked up from is cup and flicked his eyes to John.

                “That’s getting a bit scary now,” said Sherlock with a small smirk.

                John blinked and huffed a watery laugh in response. He took a sip of his tea.

                “Not bad.”

                “Well I should hope not, considering I made sure that nothing but tea found its way into that mug,” Sherlock scoffed.

                John gave him a small smile, and the two men continued on sitting in silence.

                                                             

* * *

 

 

                As the days wore on, John eventually found himself at his computer in his old spot at Sherlock’s desk. His back was to the couch, which was currently occupied with the flat’s other tenant. Sherlock had migrated from his chair, to his bedroom and back to the living room onto the couch. Eyes closed and hands on his chest, fingers threaded together, assuming one of his signature thinking poses. John had been sitting with an empty blog entry for over half an hour, no closer to starting it than he had when he had first sat down. He stared blankly at the page. He wished and dreaded at the same time that the right words would come to him. He felt conflicted; he wanted to let everyone know about the terrible tragedy that had befallen him yet at the same time he felt that it would be the final confirmation of his loss.

                It had been quiet, these past few days. Sherlock had been quiet other than a few words here and there. It was strange. Then the quiet was shattered.

                “You really should write something,” Sherlock’s voice ringing through the silence. “You’ve been meaning to and yet you have only gotten around to it now. It has been more than a week since Mary and Elizabeth died.”

                John’s face hardened and he growled, “I’ll write when I’m good and ready, thanks.”

                Sherlock cracked an eye open and observed his friend. _Shoulders tense, hands clenched._ _Probably itching for a fight, for_ something. At first, Sherlock refused to rise to the bait.

                “Apologies,” he groused.

                Apparently John thought his tone to be insincere. He turned around and spat, “Sure, you’re sorry. Why don’t you write this then, since you’re always saying my writing is shit. Bet you could do it without any problem at all, what with the lack of emotion you tend to have.”

                Sherlock flinched internally, but outwardly his mask of indifference stayed true.

                “No thanks, I’ll have nothing to do with your dumb blog.” He turned over to face the back of the couch, curling his legs up as far as he could into the foetal position, hoping this would bring an end to the doomed conversation.

                But now John was burning, his anger quickly rising up to critical levels.

                “Thanks Sherlock, very mature. Just because you can’t see me doesn’t mean we are done talking. I wish you wouldn’t act like such a child all the time!”

                Sherlock knew if he pushed John any further, this would really turn into a screaming match of epic proportions. “John-”

                “Don’t you ‘John’ me, it’s not going to work this time. No matter what you say, I can see through them. The pointless platitudes. You’ve never cared for them, never used them except to further your own gain. I’ve seen it, seen you use them with other people. They won’t work on me.” John had stood up and walked the couple of paces behind him so that now he was hovering over Sherlock’s form.

                When Sherlock ignored him, John turned away with a scoff. “Fine, be that way. I’m sure you could care less about what I think.”

                And then suddenly Sherlock couldn’t take it anymore.

                “I have done everything,” seethed Sherlock. John froze, and suddenly Sherlock was standing behind him, whipping him around and gripping his shoulders tightly. “ _Everything._ Everything I could think of. To help you, to help Mary, to help you build a _normal_ life. I have spent countless hours shifting things around in my Mind Palace for trivial things. For things I shouldn’t care about, let alone even _contemplate_. Did you know how completely and utterly _unbearable_ the thought of life without you here had become? Did you even think for a second that I _might_ care that you had chosen to live with someone else, better. Someone more normal than I could ever be?”

                John just stared at him with the most bewildered look on his face. Sherlock released him and took a step back, but now that he had started, he might as well get it all out. Everything that had been plaguing him since his resurrection. “I knew as soon as I returned that our friendship would be forever damaged by my actions after my fake-death, but hadn’t predicted that things would go so wrong afterwards.” Sherlock swallowed. “When Mycroft told me that you had _moved on_ , I was confounded. Then after that first night, I understood. It would be you and Mary, not you and I against the world anymore. I told myself that it would be fine. I would help you start your new life, the normal life you’ve always wanted and try to be a part of it as much as I could. And I tried. I tried so hard, did everything in my power to make you happy, John, and in the end it still wasn’t enough.”

                “Sherlock,” John tried to interrupt him, eyes starting to blur as his anger simmered to a slow burn.

                “No,” said Sherlock. “You need to know. You should be in possession of all the facts.”

_But that’s not quite true, is it._

                He shook his head. “It wasn’t enough. _I_ wasn’t enough. And for that, I am truly sorry.”

                John stared at him for a moment longer. Sherlock thought he would say something to him, but then John turned abruptly and practically ran up to his room. Sherlock was still standing there when he heard the door slam.

                He unfroze a moment later and reached his hand out to close John’s laptop. He realised that it was early evening, and that John might not bother coming down again tonight. Sherlock sighed heavily, laying back down gracefully onto the couch. He would not be sleeping tonight.

                

* * *

 

 

                The following week the flatmates tiptoed awkwardly around each other. Sherlock noticed John’s bloodshot eyes when he came down for breakfast the following morning after their row, but said nothing. He simply put his violin down and laid on the couch until John mumbled that breakfast was ready. Sherlock was in no mood to eat, but he half-heartedly chewed a piece of toast as John pushed his eggs around his plate. The next few days followed in a similar fashion.

                Then Sherlock got a text from Lestrade, and the game was on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry. Writing sad things isn't fun, but for the next long bit we should be getting back into the swing of things.  
> To be honest, after this part I took a writing break to get my thoughts in order, so this is basically the last of the pre-written-a-few-weeks-in-advance stuff, so depending on if I get around to writing this week the next parts will be a bit shorter.  
> Please let me know if there's typos or British slang I'm getting wrong and stuff. Thanks for reading, please comment and let me know what you thought! <3


	11. Bored

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm changing my update day to Tuesday night/Wednesday to give myself some time to write and edit on the weekend then Monday. I'm doing my best to keep writing and being on-time. This one's a bit shorter, but whatever. I tried.

                Sherlock couldn’t stand the boredom one second longer.

                It had been days, almost a week he gauged, since they had put him back in his cell and left him there. The smaller alien – the one who seemed to be some sort of doctor or scientist equivalent – had told him that they would be doing tests and such, but he had yet to interact directly with it since that day. The crowds still came to visit this demented, god-forsaken zoo and he was forced to be on display for nearly fourteen hours each day. Sherlock deduced that this might be because of the length of days for the aliens, in Earth timing. It was strange to think about and left Sherlock even more disoriented.

                Every morning before the day began, two guards would bring him to that back room and strap him down so that another alien – Sherlock recognised it as the assistant from before – could give him daily physicals. He hated every second of it, but there was nothing he could do other than try to ignore the cold, dry fingers touching him. It seemed to be fascinated by his scars and tended to map them out lightly. Sherlock had snarled insults at it at first and pulled at his restraints, indicating his massive displeasure, but aside from a few winces it carried on its examination. Sherlock wasn’t sure why it did this every day, surely the imbecile could tell that not much had changed with his body in a matter of hours. He voiced this thought and was promptly ignored.

                Sometimes it would use the mask on him again and he would lose hours at a time only to wake up aching in different places. By the time he was back in his cell, he would feel disoriented but well enough to move about his cell.

                Once the being was done with its intrusion it would call the guards in before untying him. He knew not to put up a fight. Last time he had tried running out but had gotten hit by that stun gun. Again. It wasn’t any better the second time.

                He was also fed twice a day, which wasn’t terrible for him, since he was used to not eating much as it was. They brought him lots of fruit, water that tasted funny and some sort of brown paste that he had sniffed but had not been brave – or bored – enough to try. He also had yet to be served some form of meat. Despite the nutrients that were surely added to his meals, he still felt slightly groggy afterwards. They must have been drugging his food. He had tried to refuse food before, but they just kept bringing it all the same and after three days of fasting he finally gave in. He had hated himself for that.

                He could now make out some voices on the other side of the glass if he concentrated. After removing his bandage he could hear them better, but it must have been recently soundproofed on his side since no amount of yelling and cursing seemed to penetrate through to the onlookers outside. He had probed the area behind his ear where he supposed the translation device was and found the small scar there, practically fully healed. He was as amazed as he was furious at its presence. Giving up at pawing at it, he tried to listen to the voices outside. After hearing the words _special addition_ and _unusual specimen_ spoken to the groups of spectators he tuned them out before he did something he might regret. Not that he could _actually_ do anything. He would bide his time.

                The tedium of his existence in this cage had started to wear on him. Today Sherlock had abandoned his blanket on the cot to lie down with his back to the cool tiles of the floor, eyes closed, spread eagle and limp. Had been for hours, thinking.

                He suddenly sprang up and started pacing, startling a group of aliens passing by. Sherlock barely noticed as they stopped to watch him intensely. Ok, maybe he did notice. Nevertheless, he ignored them as he had learned to do over the past few days. His jailors had taken measures so that he would be unable to communicate with them.

                Just as he was about to tear out his hair in pent-up frustration, he heard John’s voice speak to him. _Calm down, you idiot. You’ll think clearer. Take a few deep breaths._

                Sherlock did as his inner John instructed, stopping to take a few deep, long breaths. _Control._

                Sherlock opened his eyes, not realising that he had closed them in the first place, and sighed miserably. He was going to lose his mind.

                Then, like a flicker of light, something caught his eye on the other side of the glass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, a lot of blablabla, but necessary. Let me know what you think; I'm trying to keep Sherlock as much in-character as possible but idk if it's working. Comment, Kudos and thanks for reading, see you next week <3


	12. Unexpected

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the next one! Things are heating up...

                It was so subtle and yet so obvious.

                Sherlock, having had nothing better to do during his days of captivity, had spent much of his time observing and thinking. Most of his observation had been focused on the race of beings that had captured him in the first place. He had been able to deduce simple body language coupled with snippets of conversation to add to his rapidly growing bank of information. Of course, some of it didn’t make sense to him, but then again some facets of human interaction and non-verbal communication were still a mystery to him.

                But this was not one of those things.

                Simply put, having trained himself in the art of criminal deduction, Sherlock could easily identify when someone was acting dodgy. In this case it just so happened to be an alien.

                It was watching him. Of course, many of the aliens were watching him, had been all week. But this was a different style of observation. It was as if this particular being was trying to get his attention without actually bringing itself to attention. Staying fairly still, shifting every so often from foot to foot, and checking some sort of device that from a distance looked to be about the size of a mobile. Obviously trying to look casual to any normal observer. It kept looking over at Sherlock from time to time, whether he had been curled up on his small cot, pacing anxiously across the cool floor, or while he ate his meager meals. It had been watching him all day.

                So Sherlock did the only thing he could think of that might confirm his suspicions. He turned to face it directly and stared at it, observing.

                The alien in particular didn’t notice at first. Sherlock had been known to go from high velocity pacing to a standstill in record time, as a tour guide leader of some sort was explaining to a group of curious onlookers. Annoyed but undeterred, Sherlock kept up the staring. After a few seconds it looked up from its device and saw him staring back. It held his gaze, its thoughts seeming to whiz around for a second before blinking slowly and nodding once. Sherlock tilted his head slightly in confused interest.

                Then, as soon as it had begun, their staring contest was brought to an end when the alien looked down at the device in its hands and refused to look at him directly again. It walked away slowly a few minutes later.

                Sherlock watched until it had disappeared from view, a look of concentration on his face.

                His fingers automatically tented beneath his chin as he retreated quickly into his mind, carefully storing and replaying this incident in the new space he had cleared out for these strange beings.

_Intelligent, obviously,_ he noted, _at least more so than the general population. Came here specifically to get my attention without raising suspicion. Body language non-threatening. Looked at me as if I would understand its intentions. Possible intentions? Wants to observe me closer, interact more directly. Most likely a spy of some sort. ~~Possibly~~ Definitely dangerous. Need more data._

                Sherlock stood there for a few minutes more before he turned abruptly and retreated to his cot. He wrapped the thin blanket around his shoulders, a sudden feeling of exposure hitting him. A feeling of loneliness came over him and he stared absently at the floor between his bare feet. These bouts of pointless insecurity were annoying. Stupid.

                It was a few hours later, only a short time before lights-out, when the door to his cell opened unexpectedly. A guard (there were three or four different beings that brought him for his examinations) stood just outside like it would normally, but Sherlock knew something was amiss. Why deviate from routine now? Would there be a different purpose to this… visit?

                He let go of the blanket, letting it fall once again onto the cot and walked wordlessly into the hallway. They moved quietly down the hallway, the sounds of their steps out of sync because of Sherlock’s longer strides. When they came up on the usual examination room door Sherlock made to stop.

                “No, keep moving,” said the guard. Sherlock’s stomach dropped. This couldn’t be good.

                “Where are we going, then?” inquired the detective, mind calculating.

                “Shut up.”

                With a scowl, Sherlock turned around and kept walking. He knew better than to argue. They turned down a few more hallways until the guard spoke again.

                “Wait here,” it said, then after looking around a moment it retreated the way they’d come.

                The moment the guard was out of sight, a door next to him opened. He had been about to run in the opposite direction and was still poised to sprint away. Before he could, however, he straightened when he saw who was inside the small room. It was the alien that had nodded to him earlier.

                “Please come in,” it said politely, its hands crossed over what looked like the device from before.

                Sherlock eyes glanced down both ends of the hallway, and after seeing no one entered the small room. The door closed silently behind him.

                There was a small table and two chairs. The chair farthest from him was occupied by the alien, who indicated with its hand for him to take a seat. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed with mistrust, standing still and unmoving behind the chair closest to him.

                “What do you want?” Sherlock said in a low voice, empty of emotion.

                “What do you think,” it replied. “I was told you were intelligent.”

                “I assure you I am by no means anything other.”

                “Yes... Although it appears that prototype the good doctor has implanted is not working as well as it should. Your syntax is off.” The alien scanned his face. What it was looking for Sherlock didn’t know.

                “Well it’s not like I have a choice in the matter, do I? Your _kind_ ,” Sherlock spat, “decided to use me as a lab rat, not caring whether it worked properly or not. The brain is very complicated.” He took a step closer.

                “Indeed it is. The human brain, quite similar and yet different to ours. All of the basics, such as hearing, sight, and memory are all in the same areas. Your brain is quite fascinating.” As it said this, the alien unclasped its hands and tapped a few times on the screen of the device. Closer up, Sherlock could tell that the screen, albeit small, was very high quality. He saw glimpses of the symbols the aliens must use as written language, strings of data, before the screen came to rest on four pictures. They looked like scans of a brain. Sherlock decided these must be his scans, although he didn’t remember ever having them.

                “Our government has studied humans before from afar. It is still not legal to experiment on higher functioning, sentient species in our universe, but there has been talk of changing that law. For science, of course, you understand.” The alien grimaced.

                Sherlock took this in for a moment. This seemed too much like Mycroft’s area. “I’ve had no interest in politics on Earth in the past. What makes you think that politics here will hold any interest to me now?” Of course, Sherlock knew the answer to his question before the alien said it.

                “Surely you must be aware. Do I really have to spell it out for you?” it replied, unconvinced.

                “Probably an end to human life as I know it and all that blathering. Boring. What I would like to know is why you’d even bother telling me this if there appears to be no way of stopping it?”

                The alien grinned slyly. “Because there is a way. And I’m going to help you.”

                                                                

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love cliffhangers... but now Sherlock might have some hope?  
> Let me know if there's any errors or weird things and I will fix them promptly. Thanks for reading, see you next week! <3


	13. JenA

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty happy with this one. Hope it's alright.

                John spent the rest of the week in perpetual worry. Sherlock had been gone since that fateful night without any contact. No leads, as futile as they were, turned up anything. John tried to make contact with Sherlock’s Homeless network but found no success, no matter how hard he tried. Mycroft and his team continued to work on surveillance, first the cameras on their street, then to multiple blocks. They also failed to come up with anything other than the light and static at the time of Sherlock’s disappearance.

                John refused to believe Sherlock was dead. Not this time. He would have left John some form of note if he had gone off with that possibility in mind. No matter what, Sherlock always planned for every possible eventuality. It felt like the only thing John could do was wait and hope.

                Well, he was done waiting around.

                He had Friday off this week, so Thursday night and into early Friday morning he spent scouring the internet for anything. Leads, mysterious disappearances, similar circumstances. He found out very quickly that many were hoaxes or just too weird to be true. Not that he was a good judge of that these days.

                He was about to go make his third cup of coffee – this cup had gone cold a bit ago – when he came across a small chat forum that looked promising. There had been many before this particular one, but some of the things people were saying fit his parameters. Some reported seeing a flash of light or hearing a weird noise, then found that their friend or loved one had vanished. But every single one noted that things appeared neat in their rooms and there not having been left any form of clue behind.

                John commented on a few threads that looked the most like they weren’t written by cranks and gave a few details of what he had seen, not mentioning Sherlock’s name and just going by John. He got one reply ten minutes later from a comment that had been posted months ago, thanking him and asking if they could speak more.

                _Well that’s a bit creepy,_ he thought. _Although who knows. Hopefully this person might have an idea of what’s happening. It’s not like I have anything to lose at this point._

                He commented again saying that now was a good time for him, forgetting temporarily about the coffee. The stranger, going by ‘JenA’, sent him a skype address. Luckily for him he knew how to use skype. Sort of.

                He logged on, thinking absently to disable the video option, and started typing.

_JohnW: Hi, you wanted to speak more privately?_

                There was a minute or two before her messages popped up.

_JenA: Yeah what happened to your friend sounds like what happened to my husband._

_JenA: That night he had gone up for bed before me and I told him I would be up soon, just finishing up some paperwork. A few hours go by and then I hear a weird noise coming from upstairs. When I went up there to check on him, just before I reached our bedroom door, I saw a blinding flash come from the cracks around the door. It was over in a second, but when I yanked on the door he was gone. Poof. Like a damn magician. The next few hours were a blur. I called for him, looked around the neighbourhood and called the police when he didn’t answer his phone. He must have had it with him when he disappeared. Left everything else behind but the clothes on his back._

John read the messages, trying to determine if this woman was telling the truth. He noted that while she had neglected to reveal too many details about her life, she seemed angry and sad even after all this time. Who wouldn’t if their husband left them so suddenly without as much as a goodbye. He typed out his reply.

_JohnW: I’m so sorry. Did you ever hear from him again? When did it happen?_

_JenA: No, not even a note. He disappeared about four months ago. How about you?_

_JohnW: Same here. He’s only been gone a week, but I was able to acquire some security footage of the event, so I know for a fact that he didn’t leave by his own free will._

He wasn’t sure how much to tell her, but her next messages a few seconds later deterred him from saying anything further on that.

                _JenA: You did?? How???_

_JenA: Please show me, I knew there was something wrong about this whole thing._

_JohnW: I don’t know if I can show you. There was a problem with the footage, but someone I know was able to recover some of it. I can tell you what we saw._

_JenA: Oh, well what did you find?_

_JohnW: Not much. He was sleeping, then all of a sudden there was a bright light. Then the camera blanked for less than a minute. When it came back online, he was gone without a trace. His room was spotlessly clean, like someone had come through and cleaned it. It’s easy to tell from the footage that things had shifted._

_JenA: Wait… You have surveillance cameras in your bedrooms?_

_JohnW: Not my idea. It’s complicated._

_JenA: Yeah, I can tell._

                There were a couple minutes of silence before another message popped up.

                _JenA: So that’s it? That’s not much to go on._

_JohnW: Well, we had other cameras and they didn’t pick up anything, so either he hacked them himself, which would be impossible… well, maybe more improbable, or he was kidnapped and it was done by his abductors._

_JenA: Oh god…_

_JenA: So what do we do? Nothing?_

                John sighed. Nothing seemed to be all they could do. He typed out his next message solemnly.

                _JohnW: I don’t know._

 

* * *

 

 

               After another ten minutes, they logged off, John saying that he would keep in touch if there were any developments on his end. She promised the same, although John doubted there would be.

                After he checked the time and realised the late hour, John closed his laptop, entirely done with technology for one night. Entirely done with this whole thing, really.

                He brought his mug into the kitchen, turned the lights off in the main room and trudged upstairs to change into pyjamas. He thought about the events that had led up to this, how his life was now. Drowsily making his way over to his bed, he pulled the covers down half-heartedly and flopped down in a very un-manly way. Like a bloody moody teenager. He was too done with his life to care, despair hitting him suddenly. First his wife and daughter, and now Sherlock? How unlucky was he? Destined to have everything ripped from him, and in his best friend’s case, twice.

                Maybe Sherlock was right, caring wasn’t an advantage. All it got you in the end was just more drama and pain.

_Really John,_ a baritone voice told him. _Is that really going to get you anywhere? Will an emotional breakdown help you solve the case? No, focus. There is always a logical explanation, you’re just too blind to see it._

                While it was nice to know he could still imagine his friend’s voice, he had a point. John closed his heavy eyelids. When the impossible has been eliminated, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

                The truth.

_Well Sherlock, what happens when the truth turns out to be the impossible?_

                With that last thought, John drifted into unconsciousness.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I am aware of the dangers and vastness of the internet. John is too :) Maybe shit will finaly get done though.  
> Let me know if there's anything wonky, or just let me know what you think of it! Thanks for reading, see you next week! <3


	14. An Interesting Development

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update. I was working on another johnlock fic I just uploaded last night and didn't get a chance to work on this. Hopefully it's ok.

                                                                

                Sherlock was silent for a moment. The alien appeared smug after seeing the incredulous look on Sherlock’s face.

                “And how am I supposed to help from within a prison cell, with no access to anything that could possibly be of use?” Sherlock asked snidely. “Not to mention the fact that, and I hate to admit it, my perspective on what I had thought was reality has become obsolete in the face of the impossible.”

                The being across from him simply grinned and said, “In that case, what do you do when the impossible becomes possible?”

                Sherlock was silent for a second, observing the alien. “Tell me everything,” was what he finally settled on. He sat down in the ridged chair and listened to the being, wary but attentive.

                “While _everything_ might be a bit much to explain, so I will attempt to sum up.

                “A few cycles ago, our High Government – that would be akin to your international government – ordered for vessels to be sent out across the universe, to planets we had calculated that could possibly sustain life. You see, we have just invented and controlled Void travel – which is a type of wormhole technology. This technology, if you are not familiar with the theory, allows us to bend space and time so that we may travel long distances in a fraction of the time it would take to travel linearly. It took us many centuries to perfect, as there are many things that can go wrong inside of a wormhole. You humans are very close to attaining this technology, another few hundred years or so and you will be ready to handle it.

                “But back to what I was saying earlier. We had found three planets within reasonable distance of our Void technology. Obviously, yours was one of them. It was then decided that there would be an expedition to go and observe these planets to see if they were indeed hospitable. Our civilisation is expanding at a remarkable rate and we no longer have room left on our planet. And since your planet looked the most promising from a distance, we investigated further.”

                The alien looked down at its device and tapped a few times. “You can imagine our surprise to find that sentient living organisms already dominated this small blue planet. At first we did everything in our power to stay under the radar, so to speak.” It looked up at Sherlock. “This worked to a certain degree, but it turns out you humans are a curious lot. But to be fair, we can hardly blame you.”

                “If you could please get to the point,” interrupted Sherlock.

                “The point is this, Sherlock Holmes,” said the alien, “It is only a matter of time before humans catch wind of who we are and what we are planning to do. Well, I say we, but that’s not entirely true.”

                It said these next words with a determined frown. “I belong to an organisation that doesn’t exactly agree with perpetrating the mass genocide of sentient beings.”

                “Ah, so they did plan on killing us,” said Sherlock, not too surprised by this revelation. “Am I correct in my assumption that you’d known of my impending incarceration for a while and have pulled many strings in order to speak with me? And it’s simply Sherlock. Holmes is my surname.”

                “Then, Sherlock, yes. In this case you are,” was all it said. When it stayed silent, Sherlock took the opportunity to dig for more information.

                “Why me then? Why, out of almost eight billion humans, did they choose me? You say they’ve been watching us. I assume they were able to decipher some of our language and learn about our culture. While I may be considerably smarter than the average idiot, I am by no means the social norm.”

                “Indeed. I can tell by your speech and your body language that you are confident and adept in many aspects. I can see by the scars on your body that you have been through much trauma. More so than I have seen in the few pictures we have of others. If you don’t mind me asking, why is that? Did you conflict with others a lot? Or did you receive them by other means?” it asked these questions easily, without much hesitation.

                Sherlock was quiet for a moment, debating on what he should tell this being. While he wasn’t very modest, he still felt uncomfortable talking about his transport, no matter how much he tried to convince himself it didn’t matter. And he didn’t trust the alien yet. “The majority of them are fairly recent. I spent two years traveling around and dismantling an extensive criminal organisation that was a threat to national security. It was very dangerous, and I found myself captured more times than I would have liked. I was able to escape most of the time relatively unscathed. And sometimes, not so much.” He thought of his last stop in Serbia, how his brother had intervened at just the right moment. This made his heart lurch a little.

                “Interesting,” consented the alien. “And you did this by yourself?”

                “Yes.” Sherlock was able to keep his mask of calm indifference in place as he said this.

                “Then this is why. You are a perfect candidate for experimentation. Intelligent and agile. I’m sure they thought you to be a fine specimen.” It smirked at him.

                Sherlock grit his teeth and said nothing. He was becoming uncomfortable in the chair, his bare skin itching against its surface.

                “Well it seems as though we are out of time for today,” said the alien, tapping again at the device on the table. “I will try to be in contact with you again soon and we will determine how we will be getting you out of here.” Sherlock turned his head as the door opened behind him and the guard from before walked in.

                Sherlock stood up, stretching to his full height. “Yes, while it has been interesting conversing with you, I’m sure my captors will notice my untimely absence shortly. I hope we may be able to continue our association so that I may leave this prison and go back to my life.” _Back to my blogger. John must be worried sick._

                “Count on it,” it replied. “And by the way,” it stood up and came around the table. Sherlock noted that it was about his height. “For future reference, you may call me Taulu.”

                Inclining his head, Sherlock faced his new acquaintance. “Then, Taulu, let your organisation know I will assist you in any way I can.” While Sherlock knew that there must be some ulterior motive behind this alien’s words, it was Sherlock’s only hope.

                The alien said nothing as he turned around and walked out, turning down the corridor towards his cell. He heard the guard bring up the rear and the small sound of the door sliding shut. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

                 _Politics._

                                                               

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh more world building, I know. But I have a feeling bad things are coming and this is just the calm before the storm.  
> Comments and Kudos make my day, and thanks for reading! :P  
> *EDIT: Sorry guys but there isn't going to ba an update this week (For July 1st). I've just been so stressed with work and travelling I haven't had any time to sit down and write anything substantial. I feel like crap when my updates are short AND late, so I'd rather take the extra week to give you something of better quality. Again, sorry for letting the people down who read every week, but I will have a good chapter for next week.*


	15. Echoes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to keep you waiting, but I'm feeling really good about things. Here's the next one!

                When Sherlock returned to his cell, he immediately began pacing, shutting out any outside distractions. A few minutes later an announcement stated that the attractions would be closing soon, and Sherlock barely noticed when the crowds thinned as the zoo emptied out.

                Instead, he tried to digest the new information he had been given, and whether he could even trust said information. His thoughts were rapid fire as he pieced together facts.

                Taulu. This was the first time he had been given a name. Taulu had stated that there were more like it that would like to help him escape this prison. He didn’t know yet how, but after seeing what was done today made Sherlock suspect that there was someone with enough power to do it. He wasn’t sure why they would even bother; he couldn’t deduce their motives.

                Maybe this violated some sort of moral code? Taulu had told him that the government had officially forbade any experimentations on humans, but that obviously hadn’t stopped these beings from doing tests on him anyway. And planting things inside him. His hand came up to his ear absently, his mind already racing ahead.

                He also suspected that he wasn’t the first human they had brought here. They would have had plenty of opportunity, considering how much they already seemed to know about humans. Observation from afar just wasn’t enough, and Sherlock knew that from experience. There was only so much you could deduce about someone without talking to them directly. Interaction was essential.

                 _That’s_ why they put the translator inside him, he suddenly thought. During some of their… _sessions…_ while they had him strapped down they would ask him simple questions, most of which he knew the answer to, and some he did not. Then they would conduct their checks without addressing him again that day.

                Sherlock shuddered at the thought. No matter how many times they brought him to that room, strapped him down, and stuck needles and instruments into him… he would never get used to being treated like a _specimen_.

 _Focus,_ he thought, hauling his mind away from the dark path him mind had been wandering to focus on the new information he had been given.

                He stopped pacing and closed his eyes, trying to remember his first day waking up in his cell. He tried to search for evidence that another human being had been there.

                There was nothing. Everything had been spotless when he woke up to find himself trapped in a living nightmare.

                So what else did he know?

_There are a sink and toilet, a bed, a blanket. Necessities, such as meals twice a day. Artificial sunlight. They must have acquired knowledge about us – or maybe used what they consider necessities for them?_

                Sherlock opened his eyes. Now that the crowds were gone, he could observe the other cages fairly easily. He hadn’t put much thought into it before, despite his extreme boredom. It was strange. They all seemed fairly full, with three or four animals in each. From what he could tell, the one across from him had three monkeys: two females and one male. And Sherlock was alone. Why?

                At this thought, the lights suddenly dimmed, indicating that it was time to sleep. Out of defiance, Sherlock stayed where he was for a couple minutes more before reluctantly feeling his way back to his cot. He pulled the scratchy blanket up to his chin, tucking his legs up. It’s not that he was cold, per say – the bed was fairly small. And, to be honest, he always felt that he slept better if he was curled up a bit.

                He stayed like that for a while, eyes staring out into the darkness, thinking. His mind kept coming back to that one question though, because despite what little information he had, he still wanted to know why.

                Why him? If this supposed superior race of beings had done any research of merit they would have seen how unhealthy his lifestyle was. Running around after dark chasing dangerous criminals was definitely not a normal activity. Being antisocial and harsh to all that deigned try to get closer to him didn’t help either.

                But what shocked him the most was their closed mindedness. While they had had him for many days, they still would not accept that he was not female. It didn’t matter how many times he would say it, yell it, snarl at them every time they referred to him as such. They just didn’t care. They never listened to anything he ever said, unless it was to answer their questions about the composition of the outer layer of the crust of the earth, or how the seasons worked. How their societies worked.

                Why humans they not solved world hunger? How far had they traveled from Earth? Why did they still have divided nations, dictatorships, deadly diseases?

                Frankly, Sherlock was tired of this. It was obvious they already knew the answers to most of those questions. Were they testing him intellectually? Probably.

                Then, just as his mind was drifting off, hours later, he had a terrible thought. His mind had wandered back to the monkeys across from his cell. Most of the mammals they had here were social animals, which is why there was always more than one.

                Would they then try to put another human in with him? It was plausible. The more he thought about it, the more Sherlock dreaded it.

                Of course they would, if only to see how he interacted with another of his species.

                While he had not heard talk about acquiring him a companion, Sherlock knew that eventually another human would be put in his cage. They probably already had someone picked out. He absolutely hated living in close quarters with others, and while John might be the only exception, he still respected Sherlock’s privacy and thus was oblivious to Sherlock’s deepest secret.

                He would go mad, he was sure of it.

                                                                                

* * *

 

 

                John’s dream started out nicely enough.

                The day shone bright and under the shade of one of the many trees in the park sat John. His deep breathing accompanied by the whistling wind and the rustle of the trees the only sounds around him. It was warm, even in the shade.

                He remembered this day. He and Mary had come to the park near their home for a couple of hours. They had just gone for lunch and with full bellies decided to rest after the short walk from the sandwich shop.

                Silently they sat, leaned up against a tree at 90 degrees from each other, hands slightly brushing between them. This had been one of John’s happier memories from before Sherlock had come back from the dead. Mary was one of the few people he had ever been able to sit with in comfortable silence, not having to say anything, content just existing.

                John closed his eyes and leaned his head up. Searching gently for more purchase, he found Mary’s hand and laced his fingers through hers. Now that he thought about it, the gesture seemed extremely saccharine.

                Then he made the mistake of looking over at his wife.

                Her skin appeared sickly white, eyes staring at nothing. John looked at her, horrified, as she slowly turned her head towards him. There was blood at the corner of her mouth. Then she spoke.

                “Why don’t you love me, John?”

                Speechless, John simply stared at her.

                “You don’t love me anymore. Not even our daughter will make you love me again.”

                Her empty gaze turned to look past John, and he whipped his head around. There, he saw the silhouette of a child, a toddler, really, in the shadows of another tree nearby. It wore a dress, but for the life of him he couldn’t make out its face.

                Suddenly it grew dark, clouds drifting over to cover the sun in a thick blanket. A shiver ran down John’s spine as the air temperature dropped.

                He tried to stand up, to run over to his daughter, but found that he could not move. His muscles would not respond to his commands. He looked down to see rapidly growing vines encasing and immobilising him. Heartbeat erratic, his gaze shot up again to find the little girl standing in front of him.

                “No,” he said, horror mounting, “You’re dead.”

                The little girl’s plain features twisted into a grimace, a face no normal two year old would ever be able to make.

                When she spoke, her voice seemed to echo. “It’s your fault, Father. You didn’t save us. It’s all your fault.”

                “No,” he repeated, his voice a hoarse whisper. “Please, I tried to-”

                “Always your fault, Father,” she interrupted, her voice gaining inhuman volume. “Always. You did this. You let your best friend die. You let Mommy die, you let me die. You could have saved us. But _you didn’t!_ ”

                John struggled as hard as he could against the vines restraining him, to no avail. They only seemed to cling tighter, suffocating him.

                “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry…” he tried to apologise, tears threatening to fall. Then the vines wrapped around his throat, halting his last attempts at reconciliation.

                Mary had stood up and walked over next to her daughter, placing a bloody hand on her head.

                The last thing John heard before his senses faded out was the last echoes of his daughter’s words, _It’s your fault, all your fault._

                Then, just as his eyesight faded to darkness, he looked up and was suddenly blinded by a piercing, white light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that took a turn for the worst. Things are really staring to happen.  
> Please let me know if there's anything wrong with spelling or continuation, or just let me know what you thought, I love reading comments, it lets me know people are still interested! <3 See you next week!


	16. Complications

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was gonna put a quote here, but I think I'll save it. Here's the next chapter.

                There was a strange beeping sound.

                Sherlock peeled his eyes open, heavy from sleep. So the beeping wasn’t just in his dream.

                He deduced he hadn’t been asleep longer than a couple hours before that _incessant_ beeping woke him up. Before that it had taken him an eternity to fall asleep.  He hadn’t slept very well the previous night, worried about his deductions, going over scenarios again and again in his mind. He had barely eaten, barely said a word during his _session_ that day. He felt like he was in limbo, unable to do anything but wait and see what would happen next.

                He lifted his head slightly towards the noise, squinting his eyes in the dimness. He could just make out the sink and toilet across the cell, thanks to the dim light coming from the ceiling on other side of the glass. He had almost missed it, but if he concentrated he could see the slight outline of the door. It was open a crack.

                _Well, that’s unusual._

                Puzzled, Sherlock slid slowly from his bed and approached the door. His senses were now very much on high-alert and he felt his heart rate spike in response to adrenaline. As silently as he could, his posture crouched, ready for any sudden moves, he moved closer and peered closely at what was preventing the door from closing.

                It appeared to be a small chunk of… something, about as big as Sherlock’s thumb. It was stuck in the bottom corner, leaving about an inch-wide gap. And it was beeping.

                _What in the…_

                Sherlock gripped it tight with his fingers and pulled. As soon as he touched it the beeping ceased, much to his relief. There was some resistance but it gave and he snatched the device away. The door shut and sealed itself again quickly.

                The device was light, but knowing of the advanced technology these aliens had it could have held an immense amount of power. Someone must be sending him a message.

                While it appeared to be a dark grey colour, it was hard to see in the dim light, so he probed it thoroughly with his fingers. He could feel slight indents, like seams. When he prodded his nails into them and pulled, a compartment sprang open. On the inside there appeared to be a wire coiled up tightly and on the end a small bud. An ear bud?

                With careful fingers he uncoiled the wire and stuck the ear bud in his right ear.

                There was a second of silence, then a voice he recognized spoke.

                _“Apologies for not being able to speak with you in person about this matter,”_ Sherlock heard in Taulu’s voice. _“But as it is urgent that this message be relayed to you as soon as possible, I have taken the liberty of smuggling this to you. This device is entirely untraceable and can be disposed of easily, the details of which I will explain at the end of this message._

                _“What you are about to hear is data that we received not hours ago from one of our agents. We have just obtained intelligence that there is to be another human added to your enclosure._ _As you can imagine, this will make your extraction twice as complicated. I am to convene with some of the leaders from our organisation to discuss the changes in plan that will need to be accommodated, so as such I will not be able to contact you after this for an indeterminate amount of time._

_“When the time comes, however, I expect you and the other to be ready, as extraction will most certainly be twice as dangerous. I will not go into the details, but rest assured that we will do all in our power to return you to your home._

_“Now, for disposal of the message, take the earpiece out and wait five seconds. After this time has elapsed, the insides will melt. Before this happens, you must immerse it in water so that it does not burn you or leave a trace. It will then start to dissolve into particles and will wash away easily. I suggest using the toilet in your enclosure for disposal._

_“Good luck, Sherlock Holmes.”_

                Sherlock pulled the bud out of his ear, his lips parted in mild shock. After a second of hesitation, he whirled into action, dashing over to the toilet bowl and dropping the device inside. He watched, mesmerized, as the small device started to smoke and melt after the allotted five seconds, turning the water from clear into a filmy black. Blinking once, he flushed and all the evidence of the device was erased from existence.

                Sherlock fumed silently. This was _not_ good.

                This was _exactly_ what he was afraid would happen.

                Sleep all but gone from his mind, Sherlock paced agitatedly. He closed his eyes and scrubbed his hands over his face, eliciting a moan of pure, unbridled frustration. While rescuing one human might not be easy, rescuing two meant that there was a greater risk of discovery. He had learned this the hard way during his two year hiatus. A brief feeling of sorrow coursed through him.

                He might never return home now. He would be stuck here – wherever _here_ was – for the rest of his pitiful life. As an attraction for aliens to play with and observe.

                _No._

                His thoughts were interrupted by a voice, John’s voice, in his mind.

                _You will not give up, you arse,_ John’s voice growled, _that is not what my Sherlock would do. You always think of something._

                He could picture John now, as he stood in Sherlock’s mind. Much about him was indistinct, but he could not misinterpret the defiant look in his eyes.

                _You’re the world’s one and only consulting detective! You can bloody well think of a way out of this; we’ve certainly been in tighter binds before._

 _I can’t, John,_ thought Sherlock, pleadingly. _This time I am most certainly out of my depth._

 _Then what do you do when that happens?_ John asked.

                Sherlock had no answer for him.

                John just smirked at him. _When the great Sherlock Holmes is out of his depth, he_ always _does his research._

                Opening his eyes, Sherlock scowled, a newfound determination lodging itself in his mind.

                He would follow Taulu’s instructions. He would wait, bide his time.

                Observe. Learn. Calculate.

                Let them do what they will. Sherlock would endure, just as he always had. There was always a gap in the system, a chink in the armor, to be taken advantage of.

                And he would find it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ho boy, I swear, John Watson being a cheeky bastard just makes me smile. Make of this chapter what you will. Comments and Kudos make my day, thanks for reading, and see you next week! <3


	17. Questions and Non-answers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for such a late update, but I've been ruminating about how to go about this part for the past week.

                “So, Sherlock, what you are telling me is that you don’t know anything about how humans procreate?”

                Sherlock resisted the urge to scream – barely. Apparently his _sessions_ with the alien scientist had become dull even for it. They had gone through so many questions even Sherlock couldn’t remember them all. They must have almost exhausted their list of important inquiries and decided to bring Sherlock into a deeper level of personal hell. He almost preferred the physical examinations. Almost.

                “That is _not_ what I said,” he retorted angrily. “I am familiar with the mechanics behind sex between humans, whether they be of opposite or the same sex.”

                “But you have never participated?” The alien seemed genuinely intrigued with this statement. “We were under the impression than humans engaged in sexual relations quite frequently for pleasure, as you have adequate methods of contraception. Is it not instinct for mammals such as yourself to seek companionship?”

                Instead of answering the question, he responded with: “The fact that you still think that I am like others of my kind at this point in time astounds me.”

                “Then what are you like?”

                “I am singular.”

                They were silent for a few more seconds while the alien noted something onto its tablet with a frown. Maybe it was disappointed about Sherlock’s non-answer. Then, standing up from the chair it had been sitting in, it moved over to a tray and started to assemble an IV line. Sherlock knew instantly what that would mean, and his heart leapt up into his throat. The two previous times he had been hooked up to the IV after losing consciousness he had woken up, having lost hours of time, and found new barely-there, surgical-looking scars on his body. Sherlock was able to put two and two together – he was being anatomized, dissected.

                “I can tell by your reaction that you know what is about to happen,” said the being, as it turned its head to look at Sherlock out of the corner of its eye. Sherlock said nothing.

                IV prepared, the alien walked back over to stand next to him. They had strapped him down tightly so that he couldn’t move, but he wriggled anyway, fighting as much as he could.

                “You should be relieved that we take such care of our specimens,” it continued. “Especially one with a successful experimental prototype. You humans make very fine attractions and good covers for our… exploits here at this facility.” The alien stuck the needle into the vein in his arm with practiced ease despite Sherlock’s slight movements.

                Sherlock hissed at the pain, although the pinch was an expected and familiar feeling. The alien turned around again too look at some readings in the strange symbols of their language, which Sherlock couldn’t hope to decipher. While the device in his ear translated speech into understandable data, reading the symbols was a whole other problem.

                “And what will happen when you’re finished?” Sherlock asked. “You’ll dispose of me like you have done previously to the others?”

                The scientist didn’t even bother denying it. “When you cease to be useful, then perhaps. However, I find that disposing of you, as you say, would not be advisable, considering your intelligence. And while my prototype communicator is still implanted, I would like to keep you alive for further experimentation.”

                “Marvelous,” Sherlock mumbled sarcastically.

                “Oh, by the way,” said the alien, commencing the drip of some unknown substance. “We have something rather special for you when you wake up. We’ve acquired another specimen to keep you company. Hopefully you’ll find its companionship… agreeable.”

                Before Sherlock could respond with anything more than a look of outrage, a thick fog quickly settled over his brain, dragging him into a dreamless sleep.

                                                                                                

* * *

 

 

                John came awake with a jolt. His heart was pounding, and his breathing was so heavy he was practically gulping down air. It was dark and he couldn’t see, but he could feel the sticky sweat on his body. He tried to raise a hand up to wipe at his eyes when he realised he couldn’t move.

                He pulled at his restraints confusedly and felt thick material cutting into his skin. John yanked frantically, his horror mounting as he realised that he was also strapped down at the chest, waist, and ankles. He felt goosebumps appear on his flesh and his next thought was that he was completely starkers.

                Suddenly, overhead lights snapped on, momentarily blinding John. He blinked several times. Trying to control his rebelling body, he attempted to slow his breathing despite the dread that threatened to consume him. He leaned up as far as his bonds would allow and turned his gaze to the room he was in, trying not to panic.

                _What the actual bloody fucking hell?_

                He was in what appeared to be a sort of lab with instruments and machines that looked vaguely familiar. He could guess what some of them were for, but there were many of which their purpose was unknown to him. Despite the many instruments he could see, the room was devoid of anything else of note. Or so he thought.

                It was then that, out of the corner of his eye, a door somehow materialised out of thin air along a wall, conceding entrance to a silhouetted figure. When it took a few steps into the room John’s heart stopped.

                Whatever the hell it was, it wasn’t human.

                John fought his bonds in earnest now, grunting and swearing as the figure came closer and he got a better look. Vaguely humanoid, but with strange coloured skin and eyes. Another followed behind it, carrying some sort of weapon. John whipped his head from side to side frantically looking for a way out.

                “No no no no…” he said, each word gaining volume.

                The first thing said something strange in a language John had never heard before. Then it went over to a set of monitors and typed onto a translucent screen. The other being stood there, its posture seemingly relaxed yet alert. John recognised that as one a soldier might adopt.

                “What do you want?” asked John angrily as he continued to struggle ineffectively at his bonds. “Where am I? Why am I here?”

                Instead of answering, the thing suddenly appeared beside him with a mask that looked suspiciously like one used for general anesthesia. The thing said something else, looking over at the other being, and it holstered its weapon to come over and hold John’s head in place. Knowing what was about to happen, John tried in vain to dislodge his head from the thing’s grasp as the one with the mask secured the device onto his face.

                His vision began to dim after only a few seconds of inhaling the gas, and his last thought was that he hadn’t been able to find and rescue Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so terrible at foreshadowing that this was probably not much of a revelation, but I digress. It's what I've been writing this whole fic for. More revelations to come, so please stay tuned.  
> Also, yay for making it past 20k!! :D  
> If there's no update next week, it just means I'm thinking about this story much more than I should be. I am definitely planning on finishing this if it kills me.  
> Thanks for reading, Kudos and Comments make my day, and let me know what you thought or if there are any silly mistakes and stuff :)  
> EDIT(aug.8): Wow, I don't know what to say other than I'm so sorry. Some things have come up recently and my attentions have been needed elsewhere. As soon as things are taken care of I will continue witht the story, but just know it might be a bit longer still. :(


	18. Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I preface this by saying that you're awesome? Considering how long it's been since I said this story would be updated, you deserve it. Waaay too long. Hope you enjoy.

 

               The next thing John knew was that he had a massive headache. The last time he had felt like this was when he had woken up after the surgery on his shoulder. His doctors had told him then that it was probably a side effect of the anesthesia. John had never had an operation before, so he didn’t know if it would be a one-time occurrence. He moved his head a little and winced. Not a one-time occurrence, then.

                He squinted his eyes and sat up slowly, bracing his arms behind him and feeling the give of a thin mattress beneath him. He could feel the ache of his shoulder, which immediately told him that he’d been unconscious for a while. The thin blanket that had been covering him slipped down and brushed his bare chest.

                The next time John blinked his eyes against the light from above, they focused on the bare wall opposite him.

 _What just happened?_ He thought. _I don’t remember…_

                Suddenly the last few memories came rushing back – the flash of light, waking up briefly only to be put under again by some weird _thing_ -

                John struggled to get to his feet, but his residual soreness and dizziness prevented his legs from working properly. He fell of the cot with a loud smack of bare skin on smooth flooring and onto his bad shoulder, legs tangled up in the blanket.

                “Jesus bloody hell,” he groaned, rolling over painfully. “What did they give me?”

                Then he heard a moan that sounded like it was close. John turned his head slowly towards the sound and saw that there was another cot perpendicular to his along the other wall. It held a single occupant, and John could see from where he was that the occupant had dark, curly hair.

                He felt a mixture of horror and tentative hope as he got to his feet, which had started working again, and scrambled over to the side of the bed and looked down into a familiar face.

                “Sherlock?”

                                                                                                

* * *

 

 

                Sherlock came awake slowly, groaning involuntarily. He was used to waking up disoriented, after particularly invasive _sessions._ He was still partially unconscious when he heard his name.

                “Sherlock? God, please wake up…”

                He scrunched his eyebrows, keeping his eyes closed. _Great,_ he thought, _I’ve finally cracked. I’m hearing things. At least the auditory hallucinations are pleasant._ He felt hands grab his shoulders and give a shake.

                Quite a vivid hallucination.

                “I know you can hear me, you arse!” Sherlock felt his shoulders being gently shaken again. He opened his eyes and blinked the stickiness away as a familiar face came into focus. A face that was currently sporting a furious expression. He felt the hands move from his shoulders to either side of his face. “You’ve been gone for days, disappeared without a trace! Even Mycroft couldn’t find you.”

                “I don’t suppose he could have, could he?” retorted Sherlock curtly, his voice hoarse.

                John let his hands fall away. “I guess even Mycroft can be stumped.” John was now squatted beside the bed, which must have been hell on his knees. “And speaking of being stumped, where the fucking hell are we?”

                Sherlock turned his head to take in more of John as his friend observed the cell Sherlock had been living in for the past while. He saw the colour drain from the doctor’s face and goosebumps raise up on his bare skin. He did not look well. The dark circles under his eyes and the tightness in his face gave that away. But John was here! Sherlock was both relieved and terrified.

                “Where are we? Those things… why-” he stopped speaking and froze when he saw what was on the other side of the glass. Sherlock pushed himself up in a sitting position, holding the blanket tightly in his lap and reaching out to his friend’s shoulder with his free hand.

                “John,” he said in a calm voice.

                John turned his head slowly back around and stared at Sherlock with wide eyes. His face was carefully blank, but Sherlock knew his blogger well enough to know that he was trying to control his rising panic.  

                “Sherlock,” John said slowly, “What is this place?”

                “I’m sure you’ve figured it out by now, John.” Sherlock removed his hand and gestured to the glass across the room. “To put it simply, we’ve been abducted by aliens and put in a sort of… _exhibition_ , you could say. And, as you can see, we are behind glass, being constantly watched by spectators of this alien race. Not that we are the only exhibit, mind you-”

                “Shut up, alright, I get it. Just, please don’t say exhibit again.”

                Sherlock stopped talking and pressed his lips into a thin line. John looked away, to an empty corner of the room. He had a ‘I’m processing this so please shut up and let me think’ look on his face so Sherlock let him work through this life-altering information.

                After a minute, John looked back at the detective.

                “So how are we getting out of here?”

                The question caught him off-guard. Of course he knew that John was good at compartmentalising things in stressful situations, but even Sherlock was surprised that John was already planning to escape.

                Too bad Sherlock had very little, if any part of a plan. There wasn’t much to go on; he wasn’t familiar with any sort of layout other than the few hallways and rooms he had been to. Deducing his captors had proven to be as good as useless due to his lack of data on the beings, despite having been here for bloody _days_. And now apparently there was a secret war going on in the alien government and he – and now John – was caught in the crossfire.

                All he said was, “I don’t know.”

                John must have read the sincerity on his face because the next thing Sherlock knew John was up and pacing back and forth, gesturing his arms as he spoke.

                “Well that’s just bloody perfect then. We’re prisoners now. We’re probably on another fucking planet for all I know. No one knows where we are, only that we’ve vanished without a trace. We have no hope of rescue. And they’ve taken away our bloody _clothes_.”

                 He stopped pacing, a blush creeping up his neck to his face and ears. His fists were clenched at his sides.

                Sherlock, after having watched John raptly during his tirade, averted his eyes uncomfortably, pulling up the blanket a little higher. He was suddenly reminded of the one important secret he had never told John. Well, now it was only a matter of time before he found out.

                Out of the corner of his eye Sherlock watched John walk over to his cot on the left side and sit gingerly on top of the blanket. He drew his knees up and wrapped his arms around his legs. Looking out over his arms, John stared at the opposite wall.

                They were silent, the only noises coming from the outside of their cage. Spectators had just begun arriving, then. Sherlock knew that theirs would be the exhibit the most observed today, considering the new addition. He had been told that they had never kept more than one human at a time, so this might make them popular.

                “What happened?”

                Sherlock came out of his thoughts and focused back on John, whose worried eyes were trained on him. His eyes flickered down to Sherlock’s chest, which was most likely sporting an array of small scars from various tortures, surgeries and accidents. His back was much worse, so it was a good thing Sherlock was facing forward.

                Despite having to patch Sherlock up multiple times, he had never seen the extent of his scaring, especially after his return. He had been much more careful, so John would never have to see the damage. But now, under the almost harsh lighting, the lines stood out on Sherlock’s torso.

                While he tried to come up with an answer, John stood up again and walked back over to get a closer look.

                “It’s fine, John,” said Sherlock, turning away slightly.

                “No, no it’s really not.” The doctor’s fingers traced almost clinically down one of the lines. “These look surgical. And recent.”

                Sherlock’s hand shot out to grab John’s wrist. Sherlock grit his teeth as he spit out: “I told you, it’s _fine_. Leave it.”

                “I won’t _leave it_ Sherlock, when did this happen?” John glared at him and pulled his arm away.

                “Why does it matter?” said Sherlock, desperately trying to end this line of conversation. There was no way he would ever tell John about what happened while he was away, and certainly not about the experiments being done to him. “I’m not hurt anymore, and your concern is moving, but I could care less about the aesthetic value of my transport.”

                “That’s the biggest load of shit I’ve ever heard,” replied John, a smirk betraying his amusement. “You are one of the vainest men I’ve ever met. You spend at least twenty minutes a day doing your hair.”

                Sherlock huffed in annoyance, crossing his arms over his chest defiantly.

                “I do not,” he said petulantly.

                “I timed you once.”

                “Why in the world would you do that?”

                “Why not?”

                Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You’re impossible.”

                This made John laugh. He didn’t reply, just simply moved over and sat on Sherlock’s bed next to his knees, apparently letting the issue go. He saw John’s eyes trail back over to the onlookers that had crowded around the glass. How had they not noticed?

                John’s face then turned serious. “Do you know what they want from us?”

                “Information,” replied Sherlock, keeping his gaze on the growing crowds.

                “About what? Us? Humans?”

                Sherlock wasn’t sure what to tell his friend. He knew he mustn’t say anything about his encounter with Taulu given that they were most likely being carefully monitored. But considering their line of questioning, he figured his answer would suffice.

                “Everything, John. They want to know everything.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the boys are back together! I bet you saw that one coming a mile away. There are still some secrets to be revealed though...  
> Thanks for reading, Comments and Kudos make my day, and let me know if there's any mistakes or weird stuff going on. See you soon <3  
> Edit 09/02: Sorry it's been a while since the next update, but more is coming soon!!


	19. Decision

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys long time no see, (knows it's been over a month) here's the next chapter for you, so sorry about the wait! (is crying histerically as virtual pages are thrown in your general direction) And as compensation for this delay, I will be posting another chapter tomorrow, isn't that great? (hope you don't hate me for, essentially, radio silence when I should have been done ages ago and have finally gotten the motivation to write)
> 
> Warning for transphobia(?) and non-con themes.

 

                John was unnerved by all the staring.

                The aliens were staring at them intensely, as if they’d never seen humans before. He figured they probably hadn’t.

                John had done a walkaround of the cell a few hours ago, determined to search every corner of it for weaknesses, even though Sherlock had probably done the same many times. All the while, he could feel Sherlock’s gaze on him. He had yet to get up from his cot, obviously satisfied with watching John’s futile efforts.

                He didn’t discover anything useful, other than the fact that all the piping in the sink and toilet seemed impossible to break or move. He then went back to his cot to sort through his thoughts. Or more accurately, his many questions.

                Why were they here? Why them? And why was Sherlock so tight-lipped about his observations?

                John could tell that Sherlock knew more than he was letting on. But, as usual, John would not be privy to such information until the madman saw fit. Not that John really minded. He trusted Sherlock, no matter how much not knowing enough annoyed him. His friend never did anything without good reason. So John would wait and hopefully would try to pry more information out of Sherlock.

                Especially about the marks on his body. A few looked old, but many were new and still healing. John had caught a glimpse of Sherlock’s back while he was looking around the cell for anything useful. He kept himself in check, considering Sherlock’s reaction before, but he still burned knowing the detective had been hurt so badly. And with Sherlock this quiet, he knew prying would only make his mood worse.

                His mind then turned to other things. More specifically, the constant ebb and flow of the strange beings that were supposedly holding them hostage. It really did remind him of a zoo, like one he had visited when he was little. Except for the fact that he was on the wrong side of the glass.

                 With a shudder, John blinked as he drew out of his thoughts and refocused his eyes. The beings were still there.

                “They’ve muted it completely now.”

                Startled at the words, John looked over at Sherlock. He was staring intently out at the spectators, blanket cocooning him.

                “What?” asked John, confused.

                After a beat, the detective’s gaze fell on John as he sat up, his blanket falling past his shoulders. “At first they had the sound going both ways, but I got angry and, well… then they muted me, but I could still hear the outside.” Sherlock’s gaze then turned towards the glass. “Just a few minutes ago the noise from outside suddenly stopped.”

                “Huh, I hadn’t really noticed,” John said absently. He must have been too deep in his musings to hear the change in volume.

                They sat in silence for another minute, until John couldn’t stand it anymore. Just as he was about to open his mouth, his stomach rumbled absurdly loud and a sharp ache stabbed at him.

                John felt his ears involuntarily heat up. He looked sheepishly over at Sherlock, who rolled his eyes. When was the last time he had eaten? When was the last time _Sherlock_ had eaten?

                Before John could even open his mouth he was interrupted again when a small panel slid open on the wall and two small trays were pushed inside. The panel then closed swiftly, leaving John a bit bewildered. He turned his head to Sherlock, a questioning look on his face, but Sherlock wasn’t looking at him, his gaze turned to where their meals had just arrived.

                Cautiously, John got up and crept over to the trays, wrapping his thin blanket around his body and tucking the end in. He inspected the trays and picked one up in each hand. They each held a spoon, a small bowl of what looked suspiciously like yogurt, two large tins of water and a palm sized loaf of bread. He brought them over to Sherlock’s bed. His friend’s gaze followed the trays, so John handed him one. He arranged his blanket a bit before taking the food offered.

                Without a word, Sherlock began tearing into the bread, breaking it into smaller pieces and stuffing them in his mouth.

                John watched him for a moment. He could not remember a time that Sherlock had eaten any sort of food without so much as a passing comment.

                “Sherlock, are you alright?” John asked, equal parts confused and amused.

                “Whah,” he replied through his mouthful of bread. He chewed and swallowed, then met John’s gaze briefly. “Yes, fine John. You should eat.”

                John chuckled at the irony of that statement. Rather than voice this though aloud, he said instead: “Not exactly a five star meal, hm?”

                Sherlock snorted quietly through his nose, his mouth quirking up a bit. “Hardly. You would think that by being one of the main attractions they could afford to feed us better.”

                “Well, it’s not like you ate much on a regular basis anyway.” Sherlock gave him a look, but said nothing.

                They were silent once again as John followed suit and tore into his loaf. The food was bland, and what had looked like yogurt to John turned out to be something that tasted more like cheese. Not that he was complaining of course, as he wolfed his food down to tame his hunger. He tried to ignore the stares they were attracting from the onlookers outside of the cell and he could practically feel the burning curiosity emanating from them.

                John was surprised to find that Sherlock had finished first, and when his own food was gone Sherlock shoved his empty tray onto John’s lap.

                “Go put them back over where they were before,” instructed Sherlock before John could ask what he was doing, gesturing vaguely with one pale hand to make it evident that John would do this.

                “Lazy bastard,” John replied, already making his way over with the trays. He placed them roughly where he thought they had come from and returned to Sherlock’s cot. Not a second later the trays were removed swiftly and John saw the strange coloured hands reach through the panel to grasp the edges of the trays. Again, the panel shut quickly.

                “Huh,” John said, staring at the empty space where the trays had been. John saw out of the corner of his eye Sherlock’s head turn at his sparse comment. He scratched his head.

                John thought for a moment before carefully saying, “I think we should talk.”

                                                                                

* * *

 

 

                Sherlock shut his eyes.

_“I think we should talk.”_

_Sherlock looked over at him from the other side of the couch. He took a long drag of his cigarette before reaching over to put it out in the overflowing ashtray._

_Intrigued, Sherlock put out the half-finished cigarette, wiggling it in for good measure._

_“What about?” asked Sherlock._

_“Well, I’ve been thinking…” he started._

_“And that’s never a good thing.”_

_“Hey, shut up. I’m trying to be serious here,” he replied with a grin._

_“Get on with it then.”_

_He cleared his throat. “Ok, so… I just think… We’ve been mates for a while now and I was wondering if you wanted to…” He waived his hand, gesturing between them._

_It took a moment for Sherlock to process what he had just insinuated. “Date?”_

_“Yeah, like, I really like you. You’re amazing, actually. Even though you can be a complete prick most of the time.” He laughed a bit at the last part._

_Sherlock was confused. They had been friends for a few weeks, had met smoking pot outside on campus. They started talking and eventually they became friends, despite Sherlock’s “talent”. Hadn’t really bought the nice-guy act, considering he was a serial cheater. But Sherlock had never told him he was easy to read. Now Sherlock was starting to doubt the real reason why he had been interested in a friendship._

_The look on Sherlock’s face must have been enough to portray these thoughts, because he continued on: “I mean, I get it. You don’t do relationships. But I was hoping since we’ve know each other for a bit, you might want to give it a go?”_

_“I don’t know, I…” Sherlock didn’t know how to finish that thought._

_“Well, you won’t know until you try, right? Data, you always say. How are you supposed to know unless you have data?”_

_He had a point. But this was something that Sherlock hadn’t even really contemplated before, considering…_

_Sherlock’s head shook back and forth. “No, I’m sorry but- I can’t-”_

_He interrupted Sherlock. “Well, maybe you just need some encouragement. Someone ought to show you how it’s done.”_

_He advanced on Sherlock, moving across the couch. But before he could reach his prey, Sherlock jumped out of the seat._

_“Where ya going, babe? Don’t you wanna have a little fun?” Sherlock caught his gaze, eyes wide. His pupils were dilated, indicating he was getting turned on by Sherlock’s resistance._

_“What the hell is wrong with you?” Sherlock’s voice cracked._

_“Nothing’s wrong with me darling; normally girls would be all over me by now.”_

_Sherlock’s face reddened in anger. “Well, I’m not some simple-minded bimbo you can seduce just because you were nice to me. Just because we smoked together. Honestly, it’s no wonder you can’t hold down a steady girlfriend with all the cheating you must get up to behind their backs.”_

_“Don’t think you’re special just because you like to play dress-up, Holmes.” He sneered and stood up, almost meeting Sherlock eye to eye. “Anybody with a brain can tell what you have in your pants. To be honest, I don’t understand why you do it. There’s no point in pretending.”_

_He took another step closer, and Sherlock backed up to maintain their distance. “It’s not dress-up, you moron. I’m a man, and whether you understand that or not doesn’t change how I am. Having sex with you wouldn’t change that. Not that I’d ever want to touch anyone as vile as you.”_

_He laughed, then replied. “You’re right, having sex with me wouldn’t change a thing. You’d be just like all those other sluts I fucked. You’d spread your legs for me soon enough and I’d fuck you so hard you couldn’t walk straight.”_

_That was enough for Sherlock. Grabbing the black satchel off the coffee table, Sherlock dashed out the front door, narrowly missing an outstretched hand ready to drag Sherlock back._

                That’s what you get for trying, _a disappointed voice said in Sherlock’s mind._ No one ever understands, it’s better to be alone. Alone protects you.

_After walking several blocks away to make sure he wasn’t following, Sherlock proceeded to delete all the information on the smoker, including his name, keeping only this conversation to serve as a reminder. The swift shift in mood had taken Sherlock completely by surprise, something the brunette deamed not worth repeating._

_“Alone protects me,” she – he! – muttered to himself. “Alone is what I have. No one understands.”_

_Sherlock knew what he had to do now. He had been dallying, putting it off. Mycroft had had it set for months, waiting for the OK from Sherlock._

_He didn’t want to live in this hellish nightmare any longer._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I'm really sorry for the long wait, but here's a chunk of what I've written in the past few days. The rest will come tomorrow (I promise!).  
> Thanks for reading, Comments and Kudos make my day! <3
> 
> *cough*hashtagunnecessaryflashbackbecauseweneedmorebackstory*cough*  
> Oh, sorry. I've also had a cold this week, don't mind me.


	20. Maneuvering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woohoo, look at me, pumping out the slaughtermatic sounds to keep you live. (That's a reference, btw)  
> Second chapter, as promised. Hope you enjoy. :)

 

                “Sherlock?”

                This all happened in a matter of seconds. Sherlock remembered that moment, the one in which his life had changed dramatically. When he decided that he didn’t need anyone to understand.

                Even John didn’t understand, not really, since Sherlock had yet to tell him. Sure, times were better now than they were when he was in his teens. People were more accepting. He was lucky his insufferable brother was obliging to his requests back then, helping him behind their parents’ backs. Mycroft had arranged for his year off and transfer to another university so that when Sherlock had been doing his treatment for over a year he would be less likely to have confrontations like the last time. That was the only thing that kept Sherlock from completely hating him. But even Mycroft didn’t quite get it either.

                Sherlock said nothing, just stared at John and waited for him to continue.

                “Are you even listening to me?”

                “Yes.”

                “Then bloody answer me when I talk to you. If you don’t, I can’t be sure you haven’t gone to into that big damn brain and aren’t hearing me.”

                “I always hear you John.” Even when Sherlock was in deep concentration on a case, he always left a small percentage of his hearing on in case John said something. He’d record it and listen to it later, but evidently John thought he was ignoring him entirely. But John didn’t know that.

                “Well, I said, we should talk. You still haven’t told me what you’ve been doing here all this time, locked up with nothing to do. It must have driven you insane.”

                Sherlock hesitated for a moment before answering as he contemplated what and what not to tell his friend. “I haven’t been too bored. They brought me to a room to question me many times about the most arbitrary things. Most questions were inane, but from what I’ve been able to deduce from their line of questioning, they are unable to fully comprehend why humans do things the way they do. Considering their intelligence, I would have thought they’d be able to do their own research, but apparently they felt the necessity to have the answer straight from the horse’s mouth, so to speak.”

                “And you’re the horse?”

                Sherlock’s lips quirked upwards. “Figuratively.”

                John digested this for a minute before inquiring: “Wait, how are they communicating with you, they don’t speak English, do they?”

                Sherlock’s eyes fell. “They don’t.” Out of the corner of his eye he saw John’s face morph into one of confusion. Before he could say anything further, Sherlock turned his head and pushed his hair back and away from his right ear as he explained. “They put in some sort of prototype translation device in my brain, so that whatever language I hear can be interpreted into comprehensible data so that I may translate the meaning.”

                Sherlock could almost feel the horror radiating from John as he leaned in closer to look at the healed scar.

                “God, Sherlock… they’ve been experimenting on you?”

                “Don’t fret John, they haven’t done anything harmful. Or at least not while I’ve been awake, they haven’t.”

                “Christ,” exclaimed John, leaning away again. “Jesus, that’s… are you sure you’re alright?”

                Sherlock dropped his hand and rolled his eyes in annoyance. He gave John a look. “I’m _fine._ I’m here, aren’t I?”

                “Yeah…” John trailed off into awkward silence.

                It was quiet again, and Sherlock was hyperaware of how close in proximity John was to him. His body hummed with restless energy, wanting desperately to get up and pace, move, do _something._ But he couldn’t. Not while John was watching. He knew in the back of his mind that there was little chance of him keeping his secret from John for long. For instance, his bladder was making demands, having needed to be emptied for some time now. While he had mastered peeing while standing up, his lack of conventional penis would surely send John into a state.

                “John,” Sherlock started. “I need to use the toilet.”

                “Oh, sorry.” He got up from Sherlock’s cot, blanket still tied around his waist, to let Sherlock up.

                “I’d prefer if you didn’t look either.”

                “Ah, alright, I’ll just go over there then,” said John, gesturing then heading over to his cot. He sat down cross-legged and faced the wall.

                When Sherlock was sure he wasn’t looking, he draped the blanket over his shoulders and stood up. It came down to his arse, not quite covering it completely, but this would enable him to use it to shield himself from John view if need be.

                He hurried over to the loo. John’s voice rose from where he was sitting. “You know I’ve seen everything before, Sherlock. You know, being a doctor in the army and all.”

                 When Sherlock was finished, after about a minute of awkward silence broken only by the abnormally loud and embarrassing noises of his using of the facilities, he said, “I’d prefer to keep what modesty I have left intact.” He moved over to the sink to wash his hands.

                “Who knows how long we’ll be here. It’ll happen sooner or later, why not just get it over with?”

                John’s words struck Sherlock as odd. He almost sounded… eager?

                “I’d really rather not.” _Just shut up, John._

                “Fine, fine,” he conceded. “Just, it doesn’t matter to me at all, ok? I want you to know that.”

                Wiping his wet hands on his blanket, Sherlock walked back over. Tying his blanket around his waist like John, he started to pace.

                _Just what the hell is that supposed to mean? For Christ’s sake John, don’t torment me like this. You wouldn’t say that if you knew._

                “Can I look now?”

                Sherlock paused for a second before resuming his pacing with his hands in their customary thinking position.

                “If you must.”

                He heard John turn around as the blanket rustled around him. “So about the translation device. They must speak to you in their own language, the aliens. How does it work, exactly?”

                Without missing a beat, Sherlock told John what he knew. “From what I can tell, the translation is auditory only. I am unable to read the symbols they use for their language. I’ve been able to deduce a select few from advertisements our spectators carry around with them, but not enough to make clear meaning of them. I’m sure if someone told me what each one was, I could learn it quickly, but so far they have been sparse in their education. They’ve been keeping me in the dark, being careful about what I learn about them. They know humans are clever, but they are even more so.” _Although even they can be breached, have weaknesses waiting to be exploited,_ he added on silently.

                “What about human languages? Does it work with those?”

                “It might. But I already know over fifteen languages John, so I don’t think we could test it effectively.”

                “Well, I learned a bit of Pashto when I was in Afghanistan, do you know that?”

                 _Good old John. Always full of surprises._  “No, I don’t. Try saying something.”

                “I only know a few phrases, so bear with me. Ready?”

                Sherlock ceased his pacing. “Obviously.”

                “Ok, here goes. _Do you speak English?”_

                Sherlock smiled. He could tell when John had switched languages. The intonation of his words were slightly different, and it was like he could almost hear the echo of the original sounds layered beneath the words.

                “Yes, I do. Did it work John?”

                John’s face broke out into a look of wonder. He switched back to English. “Wow, that’s amazing. And you’re sure you’ve never learned it before?”

                “Positive,” confirmed the detective.

                “Ok, how about this: _I am a doctor. Do you need help?”_

                Sherlock raised his hand up to his forehead, feigning distress, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “Oh yes, please help me doctor.”

                “You git,” John said playfully, switching back to English again.

                Sherlock was glad he was entertaining John. They kept at it, almost completely forgetting they were supposed to be prisoners. They received another meal a few hours later, and after they had finished eating the crowds slowed. When the zoo was empty, the lights went out, indicating the lateness of the evening.

                They crawled back into their separate cots and wrapped themselves tightly in the thin blankets. Sherlock thought they might have turned down the temperature, noticing that it wasn’t as warm as before. The blanket was enough to keep him warm, and as Sherlock started to drift off, his mind spinning theories on how to escape, John spoke quietly.

                “I’m glad I found you, Sherlock.”

                The something warm that had been present ever since John had arrived flared anew in Sherlock's chest and he smiled in the dark.

                “Goodnight, John.”

                He heard a small sigh, then: “Goodnight.”

                As Sherlock drifted off, his mind shifted to their immediate future. He would have to tell his friend at some point. John was right, he might as well get it over with sooner rather than later. And if there was anyone he could tell, he knew it was John.

                And what of Taulu’s escape plan? He didn’t know when it was coming, _if_ it was coming. He knew John would not want to be kept in the dark about that either. The next time Taulu attempted contact, Sherlock would make sure John was with him. He wouldn’t let John be uninformed of his plans again. He had promised.

                To the sounds of John’s relaxed, deep breathing, Sherlock eventually fell asleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How long will Sherlock be able to keep his secret? Not for very much longer, I suspect.  
> Also, I've been keeping things about Sherlock's transition vague, because I have neither gone through this nor do I know anyone personally close to me who has. I don't want to offend anyone, and I know everyone is different, so if I've said anything wrong or ignorant, please let me know. (Anything Sherlock does, incidently, does not reflect the trans community as a whole and is based solely on his opinions in my story.)  
> Thanks for reading and sticking with me, I know I'm horrible at regular updates. I'll try to keep to my two week update guideline, but who knows when I'll get motivation like this to write again. I feel the flame burn bright then burn out so fast.  
> Anywho, Comments and Kudos make my day, and let me know if there's anything wonky going on, since I don't have a Beta and in all my excitement things sometimes fall through the cracks. See you soon! <3  
> *10/15: So, it's been a while, I'm so sorry I don't have an update yet, but I promise I'm not dead! Just busy with life and school, you know. The next chapter will have a bit more substance, so it needs to be written with utmost care.


	21. Burning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Lays down at your feet and curls into a ball* I'm so so so so sorry I've been completely AWOL, but please, have a chapter as recompense. Although you might hate me more after reading it, considering it's been months and this is all I have to show for it.  
> Warnings: Extremely graphic scene

_He was burning._

_He had yet to open his eyes, emitting a groan. It was stiflingly hot, and he couldn’t move. He could hear people about, talking, shouting, laughing. He tried to call out, make some other sound than a pathetic groaning, but no other sounds would escape._

_He struggled to move. It felt like his limbs were made of lead. His brain had yet to register that he had not opened his eyes yet._

_With conscious effort, he did so, finding himself in partial darkness, lights dancing across his vision. The burning intensified, emanating from his abdomen and radiating outwards. Then all of a sudden all he could see what fire. It filled his vision, red and orange and yellow blurring together to make a veil separating him from the others. His skin burned. His eyes and mouth dried out and he had to close them or else he felt he might just lose any moisture left in his body. And still the pain grew, now radiating outwards to his arms, legs-_

                “Sherlock!”

_He barely registered the shout, turning his head slightly towards the sound. Even this small movement sent pain shooting through his entire body. He couldn’t think._

                He couldn’t think.

_“John…” he tried to say, only able to get the first sound past his chapped lips before the pain and the heat were too much for his throat. He tried again, gritting his teeth through the pain._

_“John… he-lp…”_

_The all of a sudden he was being dragged, pulled out of what he could only guess was some sort of bonfire. Every move hurt, and the person dragging his by his arms had a grip like burning metal. But still he didn’t pass out. Even though he was out of the fire, he felt as if he were still burning. But the pain had taken on a different edge. He couldn’t quite figure out what was different._

_He opened his eyes further and saw John looking down on him. He appeared to be kneeling, which would definitely be bad for his knees considering they were on the unforgiving pavement._

_He could see John’s lips moving but could not make out any words. It looked like he was saying something important. He still held him in his burning metal grip._

_Just as he thought he might pass out from the pain, he felt the burning metal grip cease entirely. He focussed on John, but John wasn’t looking at him anymore. He was looking at someone in front of him. Whoever it was didn’t come into his field of vision, but going by the look on John’s face, this person was a threat._

_Everything changed from one second to the next._

_He heard a bang very close to his head, and he saw John’s head erupt with blood. His body fell back from the recoil, and he landed facing away from the shooter._

_A primal roar of rage and despair worked its way up into his throat, and through the pain he tried to scream, the scream seemingly turning to ash in the air._

_No, please no. Not John. NOT JONH NOT JOHN PLEASE GOD-_

_If he had had any moisture left in his body, he would be crying, but all he could feel was heat and pain._

_He heard the shooter take a few steps to where John lay. He screwed his eyes shut, moaning hoarsely. His best friend had just been killed in front of him and he could do nothing but call out to him uselessly._

_“Jo-hn…” he tried to reach out to him, struggling to lift his arm, to reach the fallen form of his friend._

_“Oh Sherlock,” said the voice. Female. He looked up and saw two dead eyes staring back at him. “You should know by now, caring isn’t an advantage.”_

_Mary aimed her gun right at him, and all he could think was-_

                “Sherlock!”

                That voice. He knew that voice.

                He was still burning, but as his waking mind kicked back into gear, Sherlock realised that it had all been a dream. A horrible, fevered dream.

                He could move now, and he thrashed in his cot, the thin blanket that had served as his covering now almost unbearably hot and itchy.

                “Ah... ah.” The pain had not gone away either.

                “Sherlock… Are you… alright?” said John, his breathing shallow.

                “It hurts… Hurts so much. Burns.”

                “I’m sorry Sherlock, but I can’t- I can’t come over there.”

                Sherlock opened his eyes, the harsh light painful. He wrapped his arms around his stomach, rolled onto his side and curled into a ball under the blanket. He felt a wetness trickle down his thigh. Great, in addition to waking up in pain from a horrible nightmare, he had also pissed himself.

                “Oh god… John I think I’m dying… My stomach-”

                And then he sniffed the air.

                It filled the room, this strange odour. It didn’t smell bad, per say, but it was sickly sweet and heavy. He shifted to try and look at John across the room, to see why he couldn’t come near.

                John was backed into the opposite corner, sat facing slightly away from Sherlock, and Sherlock realised belatedly that they were still in their cell… that’s right, they had been abducted by-

                An erotic moan interrupted his thoughts, and at first he didn’t understand. John had one hand over his mouth and nose, and the other…

                “I can’t- I can’t come over… You smell so good I can’t help it…”

                “What? John, what are you talking about?”

                John, nose plugged and looking like he was barely holding himself back, spoke through his shallow panting. Sherlock could barely hear him, the pain making it hard to concentrate on John’s words.

                “It started a while ago – I don’t know how long, but when I woke up there was this weird smell… it smelled really good. At first I thought I was dreaming, but when I got up to take a piss it hit me like a bus. Oh god… It smelled so good. And then I realised it was coming from you. So I went over to check on you, and you were moaning and twitching – you must have been having a nightmare. Then…” John trailed off, unwilling to finish his story.

                Sherlock regarded him with a pinched look – the spasms of pain were unpredictably throbbing, and he was starting to feel light headed. He could feel the sweat drip down his face.

                “What happened?” he said through clenched teeth.

                John swallowed audibly. “I… so many thoughts filled my head… it’s like I wasn’t even in control.” He paused, then said these next words so quiet that Sherlock could barely hear him. “They were thoughts about… you.”

                Sherlock said nothing, partly because he was surprised at John’s words and partly because the pain was taking on a new edge. It was an emptiness, like there was something missing, like a void ready to be filled. And it was somewhere that he’d never thought he’d want.

                _Oh god._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm sure most of you know where this is going. It's not going to be pretty, so bail now if you have any reservations. The next chapter will be triggery and fucked up as hell and I will probably cry multiple times writing it.  
> The reason why I've pretty much disappeared for the past few months is partly due to RL and partly due to the fact that the next chapter is going to suck. I've written myself into a terrible situation, but who knows. I'll try to do my best but...  
> Anywho, please let me know if you're liking the story so far. See you soon lovelies <3


	22. Secret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M BAAAAAACK!  
> And now, what you've all been waiting for: a new chapter, straight from the trashcan that is my existence. Enjoy.  
> Warning for suicidal thoughts.

                There were moments in John’s life where he had really wished he’d died that day in the desert.

                Many of those moments had been right after his return to London. He had felt alone, hurt, useless. Every day was a struggle to fill the hours of the day without spiraling into the darkness of his own mind, the constant thoughts of _you should have died_ and _what’s the point_ and _why me_.

                He knew that he was probably depressed, which didn’t help. And speaking to his therapist just made him feel worse.

                However, John Watson was, if nothing else, too stubborn to let these things go on without being properly British about it. So, he continued on living, no matter how much his thoughts swirled and churned just under the surface.

                He ate – just small amounts, after his stint in the hospital for three months left him with little to no appetite. He slept. He cleaned his gun. He went to his appointments and wrote about nothing on his blog.

                And then one day, all of a sudden, a beautiful madman named Sherlock Holmes swept into his life and completely turned it upside down.

                John had never felt more alive… until it all came to a sudden halt.

                For a long time, those thoughts, the ones that had plagued him before meeting the consulting detective came back with a vengeance. His nightmares were filled with explosions, blood, pulseless skin and a black headstone.

                He had almost done it, too. Almost gave in. If Mrs. Hudson had not come up to check on him to find John fondling his gun, he might have done it. She had tutted, said something about it not being decent that he be waving that wretched thing around. And he had broken. Dropping the gun to the floor, safety still on, he put his head in his hands as his shoulders shook silently.

                His landlady had made cooing noises, coming over to give him a comforting hand. Feeling her frail hand on his back through his shirt had been strangely soothing. It was enough to ground him and for him to realise that it was possible to go on. It wouldn’t be as good as before – it couldn’t ever be – but it could be different and maybe even a little bit good.

                So the next day, he put on his fuck-me shoes and his fuck-me shirt and wore his fuck-me cologne and went in search of a job.

                A month later he was a GP at a clinic and had found Mary.

                There were still some nights, as he lay next to her, that the nightmares returned. That he dreamt of his flatmate’s suicide. He saw it clearly now, even after all this time. But he was fine. Fine. _Fine._

_I’m fine. Fine._

_And then-_

                                                                               

* * *

                

                His eyes screwed shut, John chanted in his head and tried to ignore his treacherous body: _No,_ _I’m fine. Fine. It’s all fine. Fine fine fi-_

“You obviously aren’t. Neither am I, for that matter.”

                _What?_ John thought. _Did I just say that out loud?_

                “Yes, now please John, concentrate,” came the reply. Sherlock. “I might not have much more time so you need to listen to me.”

                “…Ok,” John said slowly, opening his eyes and looking over at Sherlock’s prone form on his cot. His face was pinched in what looked like pain and he was clutching his stomach under the blanket.

                Sherlock hesitated for a moment before speaking again. “There is something I’ve been meaning to tell you, but never have. Since it’s likely you’ll never want to speak to me again, I might as well tell you now. You probably would have found out eventually,” His lips quirked up at the ends. He met John’s gaze with his own, pupils blown with only a sliver of pale green around them.

                John braced himself for the words. What came next was not something he had expected.

                “Sherlock is actually a girl’s name.”

                John blinked. “What?”

                “Do I really need to explain it to you?” Sherlock asked impatiently. “Maybe it will just be easier if I show you.”

                John scrunched his eyebrows in confusion. “Show me what?”

                Sherlock didn’t reply. Instead, he sat up, groaning in pain. Hands still clutching his stomach, he stood so that the blanket fell away to reveal his naked body. John couldn’t look away.

                His skin was flushed, and the small white scars stood out more prominently along his lean frame. He was slick with sweat, beads dripping from his forehead. His hair was a mess, some of it plastered to the side of his head, the rest sweat drenched. John’s eyes traveled down Sherlock’s body until…

                John’s brain screeched to a halt.

_He doesn’t have-_

_Sherlock’s not-_

                “You, uh…” John started, baffled by the sight before him.

                Sherlock kept silent, his face blank.

                “You-”

                “-don’t have a penis,” Sherlock finished.

                John said nothing, but his mind was buzzing. He was still trying to collect his thoughts when his friend spoke again and he met the detective’s eyes.

                “I realise this must come as a shock. You’ve known me for a long time and I’ve never told you. I didn’t see the need, since I thought that this would never happen. And by that I don’t mean the alien abduction.” He smiled a little at that, and John stared at him dumbfounded. He remained silent, and after a pause, Sherlock continued.

                “I know that it might be… difficult to accept right now, but I would like you to know that it was never my intention to deceive you. I’ve presented as male for more than half my life now, and the only ones who know are my family and now you. I am, for all intents and purposes, who I’ve always been since you met me. Well, maybe not quite the same, but then again you bring out the best in me, John.”

                John’s mouth opened and closed, but no sounds came out. He couldn’t make his voice work. He had so many things he wanted to say that they had all got muddled on their way to his mouth and got stuck in his throat.

                “I understand if you’re angry… I had hoped that you would…” Sherlock trailed off into silence, looking away and breaking their eye contact. John blinked.

                After a few more seconds of processing, John settled on one thought. “Why would you think I’d be angry?”

                Then it was as if the dam broke. John stood up as he ranted. “Why the hell would you think that I wouldn’t understand? I’m a doctor, for God’s sake! I wasn’t lying to you when I said it was all fine. Why won’t you ever get that? I wouldn’t care if you had two cocks sticking out of your forehead! Because I wouldn’t think any less of you – you’d still be a brilliant, mad detective, that’s all that matters to me. Though to be honest, having two cocks on your head _would_ be a bit strange.”

                “So… you’re _not_ angry I’ve lied to you all this time?” asked Sherlock, looking back over at his friend with a strange look on his face.

                “Of course not, you idiot! Although I’m a bit sad and disappointed that you didn’t trust me enough to tell me before.” John gave him a smile, which was returned tentatively by Sherlock.

                “So now that that’s out of the way then, to the matter at hand.” Sherlock bent over and winced in what John believed to be pain. He picked up his blanket off the floor and went and sat down on his cot.

_Well, Sherlock will be Sherlock. Down to business now I guess._

                “I believe that this… strange smell is some sort of pheromone concoction that is affecting us on an instinctual level. You’ve already moved closer to me and haven’t even noticed.”

                John was surprised to find himself standing before Sherlock. He was, of course, completely naked, and even though he wasn’t embarrassed – God, he’d been in the army, for Christ’s sake! – his ears burned slightly at their close proximity.

                “Now that I’ve had this moment of clarity, I have no doubt the pain will return full force unless we do something about it,” said Sherlock, a grimace marring his flushed face.

                John took a deep breath, and the smell invaded his nose until he could concentrate on nothing but its sickly sweetness. “What do you mean?” he asked absentmindedly.

                Sherlock laid down on his back and looked up at John with trepidation, his eyes boring into John’s.

                “You’re going to have to have sex with me.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See endnote.

**Author's Note:**

> So the short of it is: I can't finish this fic.
> 
> The long of it: I've lost the motivation to write in the Sherlock fandom ever since season 4 aired (which is still a good while after I stopped writing this). I still love the show, but it's been so long now and I've moved on to other things. I'm sorry to disappoint anyone who wanted to know the ending. I had two endings planned, neither of which I was comfortable writing. And I'm still not comfortable enough to write them. Because they were pretty gruesome.
> 
> If you would like to know how it ends, please let me know in the comments and I can put my notes from my writing document up in the comments.
> 
> Thanks for reading up to here and know that I really appreciate your support.


End file.
